


Technical Difficulties

by corviid



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor is Bad at Feelings (Hazbin Hotel), Angst, Body Horror, Character Study, Demisexuality, Friendship/Love, Internal Conflict, Light Masochism, M/M, Nightmares, Slow Burn, Soft Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21682087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corviid/pseuds/corviid
Summary: The hotel is running relatively well. Relationships between Alastor and the rest of the staff are budding surprisingly smoothly. And then the rainfall starts up, threatening all of it.Alastor's out of tune.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 102
Kudos: 918





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I haven't written fanfiction for a number of years, but Hazbin Hotel has really lit my fire and it feels absolutely amazing to be writing again.
> 
> Enjoy! ♥  
> cor

Warm rivulets of rain rolled down the stained glass windows, running streaks through the whispers of ash and soot that Hell’s heat had baked to the glass. The patter was incessant — one million tiny fingers drumming an improvised chorus to some unknown song. To the Radio Demon, it was an oddly familiar sound; the thrum of it all converging into a white noise almost akin to his own humming static.

Storms made very little ecological sense in a place such as this one. It wasn’t the blistering heat, however — but rather Hell’s very, very finite water sources combined with its lack of any Earthly atmosphere. Demons did not require water to survive (and an eternity of unending thirst was a punishment all its own), and besides, there was little use in preserving the precious stuff. Hell itself was but one enormous, greedy maw, and any standing water would soon be absorbed by the dirt and the brimstone, swallowed and evaporated.

No, the rain was but another inscrutable punishment laid upon them by whomever or whatever determined such systems of torture. When it came — and it did so seemingly of its own discretion — it served only to soak the souls of sinners, to drown their spirits. It was an inconvenience, really.

But it sounded lovely. Alastor turned a bemused smile upon one of the hotel’s picture windows, his hands busying themselves with smoothing the front of his suit habitually. Well-dressed, well-groomed, vibrantly immaculate as always and sporting his usual toothy grin. It was important to keep up appearances, after all.

The rest of the hotel’s inhabitants seemed less appreciative of the weather’s sudden turn. Charlie and Vaggie stood in the foyer, deliberating how the rain may impact clients. The princess, optimistic as always, seemed convinced that the weather might actually bring some new faces out of the woodwork. However temporary a shelter they may need, the hotel’s door was always open. Vaggie couldn’t help but smile at her cheeriness, but nevertheless reminded her gently that nobody was likely to be wandering the storm.

“If they haven’t shown up already, I don’t think they’re coming today, hun,” Vaggie put her hand reassuringly on Charlie’s shoulder, giving it a supportive squeeze, “but who knows. Maybe when it clears…” 

She trailed off, smiling that fond little smile of hers as Charlie nodded enthusiastically. The two entwined their hands together in a brief moment of tenderness, Vaggie’s features relaxed, at ease for once.

Yes, perhaps when it clears.  
Business had been relatively slow, Alastor mused, though even he couldn’t entirely determine why. The Happy Hotel had garnered some attention after taking on Alastor as its benefactor (as well as undergoing some much needed improvements and renovations), but as of late, the guests were trickling out faster than they were trickling in. Rehabilitation required a certain type of sinner: a misshapen soul with room for improvement, with a desire to better themselves in some way or another. Said types were few and far between. No, the hotel had seen its fair share of quitters.

But Alastor had no intention of quitting on the hotel. Or, for that matter, quitting on them. Charlie, Vaggie, Angel Dust — they’d grown far less threatened by his presence since his involvement with the hotel, even going so far as interacting with him by choice. The game had changed (or at the very least, the object of said game), and something altogether foreign had flickered to life inside of his dead chest. It was as though he’d stumbled upon some unknown frequency — and he could make only marginal sense of whatever it was broadcasting to him.

The rain drummed at his thoughts, and for a moment, seemed to harmonize with the static inside his head. His hands knitted neatly together at his waist, though his eyes remained a measure unfocused. He had always appreciated the monotonous patter of rain when he was alive: Louisiana, after all, experienced quite the rainy season...

“Yo, Strawberry. Hello? Hell-o?”

Alastor cocked his head to the side, his grin shifting, but never leaving his face as he blinked himself free of his thoughts. He emitted a tiny pip of static, and Angel Dust withdrew the gloved hand he’d been waving in front of the other’s face.

“There ya are.” Angel raised an eyebrow, peering a little closer at him. “What, you get a service blackout or som’thin’? I w’s talkin’ to ya.” He folded his lower set of arms indignantly, though his coy little smile said otherwise. 

“Oh, Angel!” Alastor turned his grin up a notch, and he gestured with both arms at nothing in particular. “I do apologize, my dear! Where are my manners!”

He chuckled, and it seeped through his lips like crinkled tin foil. Angel only rolled his eyes. The Radio Demon, behind all of his status and grandeur, was less chaotically evil than they’d all been lead to believe. Sure, the guy could quite literally bend space at its weak points if he felt motivated enough, but he wasn’t, like, evil-evil. At least, Angel didn’t think so.

“Yeah, I donno, out the window?” He gestured over his shoulder to the bar with an upper arm, his bottom hands on his hips. Husk was (miraculously) busying himself with a few mugs of something or other. “I asked if ya were cold. I convinced Husk’ta make us all cocoa.”

It was then that his nose registered the sweet scent of chocolate and vanilla — and something decidedly more astringent, a liquor of some variety. Charlie and Vaggie were already trying to get Husk to put down the bottle — (the princess had her hands up as she sheepishly assured him that she’d “prefer regular hot chocolate!”) despite Husk’s insistence that the “recipe” “needed it.”

“Am I… Cold?” Alastor returned his attention to Angel, blinking once, then twice as he seemed to consider the very idea. He caught himself laughing at the thought, but waved his hand as though to reassure Angel Dust. “No no, not quite, I’m afraid! But temperature aside, I’d be happy to indulge!”

Angel seemed to like that answer, however weird it was, and the two took seats at the bar where Husk was adding the “finishing touches” to the treat. Sweets, Alastor noted, were not something his particular palette enjoyed. But a generous splash of black coffee — poured from a french press that Alastor had conjured out of the ether — could easily fix that. He hummed as he stirred the concoction and raised the steaming cup to his lips. The bitterness was at once a familiar sensation to his taste buds, and it reminded him briefly of a café mocha he’d had in his youth.

They sat like that in comfortable silence, the rain pattering overhead. Charlie cradled her mug with one hand, and beneath the bar top, Vaggie laced their fingers together. Angel seemed just as content, though it may have had something to do with the alcohol that Husk was openly topping off his drink with. Even Husk’s mug was some ratio of chocolate and cream to alcohol — and it was a surprisingly even ratio.

“Ya think it’s gonna let up soon?” Angel took a swig from his mug, idly passing it to another one of his hands as he swiveled on his stool to peer outside. The droplets had become fatter and fuller, crashing against the glass as though begging entrance. “Or’s Heaven just gonna keep pissin’ on us forever?”

Vaggie snorted, and Alastor gave a jaunty chuckle into his coffee.

“How terribly crude of you!” The Radio Demon set his cup down on thin air, the mug finding purchase where there should have been none. He conjured forth a clipboard and flashed it towards Angel, his grin widening. “The forecast doesn’t look good, I’m afraid!”

Angel could only raise his eyebrows as he assessed the “forecast” that Alastor had presented. More appropriately, that Alastor had created. It called for “inescapable suffering and eternal damnation” for the next 349 years — aside from next Tuesday, which would be sunny, apparently.

“Yeah… somehow I don’t think that’s accurate, Smiles, but thanks.” Angel pushed the clipboard back, and Alastor disappeared it with a smug smile, his hands taking up his mug again just in time for Angel to clink their cups together.

Oh? Was there something to celebrate?

Alastor tilted his head. Behind the bar, Husk was preparing another cup, and judging by the amount of alcohol going into it, it wasn’t for any of them. Vaggie was chiding him cooly, though her tone suggested she was running out of shits to give for the day. Charlie even gave a tiny giggle, which she stifled with the back of her hand, but the way her eyes squinted and her eyebrows shifted gave her away.

“Am I to assume you have something to celebrate, my dear fellow?” Alastor clinked back, his eyes trained on Angel’s face as he took a sip. The cup nor its contents ever cooled — Alastor’s hands made sure of that. Charlie leaned forward enough to peer at them from beside Vaggie, her curiosity piqued at the possibility of a theatrical celebration. 

Angel waved three of his four hands dismissively. “Nahh, nothing like that,” he assured, though his smile crept wider still as Alastor seemed unconvinced. For being an all-powerful Overlord, he had become surprisingly easy to chat with. At least, Angel noted, when the topics were Alastor-friendly.

Well, that was a surprisingly vague answer. Alastor watched him for a moment, studying Angel’s face for some indication or answer, but his easy smile could have been indicative of any number of things. It was a very fetching smile, though, nonetheless, and Alastor took another sip of his coffee. “If you insist!” Bitter, with a kiss of sweetness.

The five of them nursed their drinks for a while longer, chatting idly about nothing in particular as the rain continued to drown the exterior of the Happy Hotel. Venturing outside was unthinkable, if only for how unpleasant it would be upon returning. The very thought of soggy clothes clinging to his skin, to the delicate fur of his tail, constraining his movements with the sheer weight of wet clothing was enough to keep Alastor inside. Whether or not he could simply aparate new, dry clothes was unrelated to the sheer torture of enduring a waterlogged wardrobe.

Not that there was much to accomplish outside the hotel today anyway. Nothing immediate needed restocking and no public appearances or meetings were scheduled for the next little while. No, ultimately, it was to be a week devoid of any meaningful structure.

He hummed, the static rolling in his throat as he rocked his drink idly in his hands. The sound of the rain was almost deafening, almost overwhelming— the pounding of one million powerful hands against the doors and windows, scratching and clawing a way inside. He realized his eyes had begun to faintly glow, his vision clouded by a vignette of soft crimson light. The others had definitely noticed, their faces turned towards him with inquisitive — and albeit slightly concerned — expressions.

Well. This was new.  
Alastor waved his hand reassuringly as he downed the last of his drink, rising gracefully from his seat as he conjured his microphone. His smile faltered for a half second as the thing immediately began blaring feedback — and the eye’s pupil, usually trained straight and obediently on Alastor, roamed endlessly.

“Well! That’s enough of that!” Alastor disappeared the cursed thing, though it did little to assuage the rest of the hotel staff. Vaggie looked positively on edge, and Charlie and Angel were only marginally more collected. Husk, who had begun polishing glasses, raised an eyebrow towards the Radio Demon. Alastor smoothed his coat again, adjusting his bow tie as he clicked his tongue. He offered one of his usual chuckles when Charlie furrowed her brow at him.

“How positively odd!” Alastor put a hand on Angel and Vaggie’s shoulders from where he stood behind the bar stools, patting them in a motion that was meant to be reassuring. Neither seemed particularly placated by the gesture.

“Al? You feelin’ alright?” Angel drew the words out slowly, almost suspiciously. He eyed him up and down — though this time, there wasn’t anything sexual about his glance.

“Absolutely!”

But the usual tinniness of Alastor’s voice was turned up some, his reverb not quite right. And in that moment, as the storm waged war on the building’s exterior, a long, low hum breathed free of the hotel itself, plunging them into relative darkness. Alastor’s eyes, complemented by the usual faint reddish-orange glow seeping in through the windows, were the only sources of light.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for all the support! Your comments absolutely warm my heart.
> 
> Enjoy! ♥  
> cor.

The silence — or rather, the complete and utter lack of silence — as the rain continued its violent onslaught seemed to swallow the hotel. It was punctuated only by the creaking, the low moaning of the building’s aging architecture as it all but swam against the tide of the storm. It was almost biblical, Alastor mused, as though Hell’s hands were conspiring to construct a proper mockery of Heaven’s scriptures. And it was a very amusing thought.

“Hm…” Alastor’s smile had faltered only slightly. He considered summoning forth his microphone, if only for something to busy his hands with as he mulled over his thoughts, but the likelihood of it still screeching noise was much too tedious. His eyes burned like lamp lights in the darkness, warm and anchoring — if a little disconcerting given his reputation — as he turned to face the bar again. 

And the looks attached to their faces were utterly endearing. Charlie’s usual chipper attitude was nowhere to be found, her characteristic smiling face turned into a frown, her eyebrows knitted into a picture of concern. Her hand was resting almost protectively on Vaggie’s knee, who looked equally rattled, her own arms crossed over her chest. Her shoulders were slumped, her hair falling across her face a little more than usual.

“Al,” Charlie’s voice was steady, but a measure of fear crept into her words as she peered first at Alastor, then beyond his shoulder at the chaos outside. She stared for a moment, the frown carving deeper into her face. “...What’s going on?”

Rain was a strange phenomena — but it was all the stranger in Hell. The storms left destruction in their wake in part because of their utter unpredictability. But Charlie had handled her fair share of destruction; she was, after all, the princess of Hell and spawn of Lucifer. But her worry was more so directed at the Radio Demon — who, presently, seemed altogether tinnier than usual. It spread beyond his voice, though. The fact that Alastor _himself_ seemed slightly caught off guard only stoked the warning fire in her belly; the twisting, searing heat of uncertainty. Of vulnerability.

It verged on painful.

“Well, my dear, that is the million dollar question!” Alastor’s grin had devolved to a smile, and he folded his hands behind his back as he inspected the nearest window. The panes would hold, there was absolutely zero doubt about that, but the water thundered against the glass with some unknown vengeance. He tilted his head to the sound, letting it wash over his thoughts. The roaring white noise rivaled only his most aggressive static patterns, his loudest and most penetrative interference. It was overwhelming, bordering on _intoxicating._

He snapped back to reality when he felt a familiar hand touch his shoulder, and it was only then that he released the breath that his throat had been subconsciously holding. Alastor twisted his head, his hand raising instinctively to remove Angel’s fingers from where they lay against his suit, but he paused.

“I’on’t usually press for details, Al,” Angel let his hand rest a few seconds longer, but withdrew it of his own accord, much to Alastor’s surprise. His other pair of hands were folded at his waist, and though he played it off as fidgeting, it seemed more akin to nervous wringing. “But yer bein’... Like… _Extra_ creepy righ’ now.”

Angel dropped his voice a measure lower, side-eyeing the girls for a split second before speaking again, “...an’ it don’t seem like it’s on purpose.”

Charlie and Vaggie were watching them, but it was difficult to hear anything past the deafening downpour. Behind the bar, Husk was stacking clean glasses — and though his claws held fast to the dish towel (the effect was almost like velcro), his usual slouch had been injected with a rigid tension.

“...My apologies.” Alastor’s voice was noticeably softer, noticeably more human as the static trickled briefly from his words. His smile was more minute — visible, still, in its toothy glory, but ultimately understated compared to the usual amount of facial real estate it consumed. He glanced down at one of his gloved hands. The stitching was immaculate, the lining as comfortable as a second skin against his ashen hands. But those hands — those hands that held such immeasurable power — felt briefly like they were slipping.

And he absolutely _loathed_ it.

“Uhh… I mean…” Angel wasn’t quite sure what he’d been expecting Alastor to say, but it certainly hadn’t been this. It wasn’t even the words that were concerning, but rather, the tone in which they escaped the Radio Demon’s mouth. Words were his entire game, but these ones had changed the rules, had disposed of the manual entirely. Angel wasn’t sure how to proceed. His arms hung at his sides lamely, his gold tooth gleaming in the crimson light emitted by Alastor’s eyes. There was something else there, too, something foreign and indecipherable pushed deep below the surface of the red sea. It made Angel’s stomach flip.

“...Are _you okay?_ ” He reached out a tentative hand, but Alastor stepped aside, replacing his smile as he ventured back towards the bar. Angel curled his lips, folded his arms against his fluffy chest as he breathed a curt sigh. For as comfortable a companion Alastor had become, he remained as utterly unreadable as ever. Now and again, words would aparate on the page, but they’d rarely form coherent sentences as Angel struggled to follow the plot.

The bar lights flickered, stuttering to life as Alastor took up his seat again. Everyone cast a glance upward; the filaments seemed to churn as the electricity chugged along, blood struggling against a clotted vein, until the glass finally shattered. Charlie and Angel Dust let out sharp yelps as the slivers shot forth like tiny bullets, some slicing fur and skin alike as others found purchase only in the wooden floorboards. Vaggie was immediately at Charlie’s side, her hands reaching tenderly for her princess — who reassured her through clenched teeth as she removed the glass pieces stuck in her arms. The blood, deep and crimson against her porcelain skin and the white of her button up, pricked to the surface for only a moment as the wounds resealed.

Angel, on the other hand, had no one to comfort him as he yanked slices of glass free of his hands. The wounds weren’t grave by any means, no, but the blood that seeped forth stained the off-white of his fur a tantalizing red. Alastor merely peered at the cracked corpses of the light fixtures, briefly entranced.

He hadn’t intended that to happen.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Husk was shaking his head, his perpetual frown twisted into a disgusted grimace as he turned his back to the bar top. This might have been within Alastor’s means, but it was decidedly _not_ in line with Alastor’s usual brand of chaos. “ _You_ are more fuckin’ trouble than yer worth!”

And in that moment, all eyes were on the Radio Demon — something he’d usually relish, of course, as the theatrical entertainer he was. He drummed his fingers along the bar top, the sound carrying the same rhythm as the rainfall outside, as the rhythm rocking his thoughts.

“Well now!” he crooned, lacing his fingers together atop the bar. Angel and Vaggie stood on either side of him, arms folded, two relatively unassuming prison guards flanking their prisoner. Alastor let forth a trademark laugh. “How embarrassing! I’m terribly sorry to say that I seem to be experiencing a… complication or two.”

Husk could only roll his eyes.

“A _complication?_ ” Charlie repeated, her hands on her hips as she fixed him with as hard a look as she could muster. The feeling in her stomach refused to die down. No, that cold heat only grew under the glowing gaze of the Radio Demon.

“Precisely, my dear!”

“Well, can you _fix_ your…” the princess gestured at his general everything. She sighed, rolling her sleeves to the elbows, shifting her weight from one hip to the other as the tension crawled across her body. “...your _complication?_ ”

A mangled, distorted laugh track filled the air as Alastor chuckled alongside it.  
At least that was still working! Sort of.

“I have _no_ idea!” he finally announced, his smile intact, but smaller than usual. Alastor twisted the stool back around — much to Husk’s absolute displeasure — as Vaggie and Charlie exchanged worried glances. Static was lingering in the air, palpable as it rose and fell alongside Alastor’s very breath.

Angel rubbed his top hands with his bottom ones, nursing the glass wounds there. The skin was beginning to ache as it stitched itself neatly back together, though his regenerative capabilities were no match for those of Charlie’s. He sighed, fluffing his hair a little as he took up the seat next to Alastor. Living with the Radio Demon had been unpredictable from the start, but they were in a whole other world of trouble if Alastor himself didn’t know what was happening.

Alastor, meanwhile, had experienced plenty of rainfall during his time, and yet there was something decidedly different about this one. The drops had always been rhythmic, of course, but the draw was ultimately superficial in most cases. He hummed to himself, and the static seemed to vibrate, seemed to swell.

“Well,” Angel said, as he rested his elbows on the bar top and his chin in his hands. His expression was characteristically bored, though it did little to hide his concern. His acting skills were better suited to other situations. “ _This_ fuckin’ sucks.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing Charlie in this chapter. Enjoy some extra soft Alastor!  
> Thank you all, again, for your continued support! ♥
> 
> cor.

Night had fallen softly against the cacophonous downpour, its arrival as smooth and gentle as silken sheets on sensitive skin. The rain was torrential — furious and unrelenting as it continued its assault upon the Happy Hotel. To the majority of its residents, the patter and hum had become little more than background noise filed away to the subconscious, ready to resurface at a moment’s notice as the building shuddered and groaned.

But to Alastor, who lay rigid and unmoving against the covers of his bed, the sounds were inescapable. His eyes had yet to dim their crimson incandescence, and besides the light burning forth from his own body, the room was dark. His gloved hands, folded neatly over his front, tightened their grip as each wave of crashing static washed over him. Engulfed him — drowned his thoughts beneath inches upon inches of heavy water. He could feel a tightness in his chest, and though he could objectively recognize his body struggling to breath, there was little he could do to pull himself free.

Nevertheless, the smile never left his face — no matter how much the corners of his mouth quivered and twitched with effort.

It was as though he were swimming, his very essence at the mercy of some ethereal riptide. He could feel the natural static inside his body pressed tight to his core, the storm’s incessant interference balling it tighter and tighter, smaller and smaller. Were he in his usual state of mind, the foreign feeling would have intrigued him, even excited him, given its unpredictability — but presently all he could process was the relative pain of it all. 

And that was _equally_ exciting.

Downstairs, Charlie had busied herself in the kitchen. A pot of water simmered softly on the stove top as she carefully, precisely, chose a fine china tray to set two equally fine china teacups upon. She smiled to herself, confident that if anyone would appreciate her eye for aesthetic, it would be Alastor.

Now, where was… Aha!

She stood on her toes, her hands grasping to reach something on one of the highest shelves. Her fingertips barely grazed the cool surface, but she ultimately decided _against_ another serving of glass shards as she resigned herself to using a touch of magic instead. A small, ornately decorated ceramic container levitated from the top shelf of the pantry until it sat firmly within her grasp, and as she breathed in the scent that lingered along its surface, she could only manage a mirthless smile.

She set the container on the counter, rescuing the pot of water before it came too close to boiling over. It would need a moment to cool, of course, and she set it to the side as she fished a pair of teaspoons from the kitchen drawer. With a flourish of her royal wrist, Charlie untwisted the ceramic container and inhaled as she placed a scoop into each grandiose cup. The scent was spicy and vaguely overwhelming: cinnamon, star anise, sweet ginger, dried apples, and a touch of something far less Earthly. 

It was her father’s favorite.

“...Yer not gonna go bother him, are ya?”

Charlie gave a start, nearly spilling searing water down the front of her shirt as she twisted to see Angel Dust leaning against the doorway. He wore his usual expression: bored, yet with the telltale arch of his brow suggesting distinct curiosity. His hands were folded over his chest, but there was something rigid about his posture nonetheless.

“Angel! I’m not going to _bother_ him,” Charlie asserted, her lips twisting into a poorly hidden pout. Carefully, she filled each cup with a precise amount of water, her practiced eye knowing exactly when to stop. “I’m going to make sure he’s okay.”

“Didn’ he say he w’s gonna rest?” Angel peered across the counter, the stinging scent of ginger finally reaching him. He wrinkled his nose a touch. _Tea_ was the kind of _refined bullshit_ he could only ever ascribe to the narcissistic upper-class types — and Alastor probably _loved_ it.

“...Annnd he can, but if he’s not feeling well, I want to help!” She was already collecting the tray, having added a small, equally ornate bowl of cream to the ensemble. The set was deliberately missing its sugar bowl — and though the tray seemed awfully incomplete without it, Charlie had quickly picked up on Alastor’s penchant for bitterness.

“He’s the _fuckin’ Radio Demon,_ Charlie, can he even _get sick?_ I jus’—” Angel huffed, hunching his shoulders tighter. His expression had soured some as he gestured illegibly with his lower hands. “...I’m jus’... kinda… _Y’know_ …”

She stopped in the doorway, waggling a brow at him. “What, _jealous?_ I can make you some, too, if you actually want any.” She raised the tea tray as though to enunciate her point. Her lips tugged into a smile as he seemed to be utterly at a loss for words, and she shifted the tray to one hand, her other reaching to squeeze his arm. “You’re worried.”

It wasn’t a question — and Angel could only manage a shrug in response. He felt uneasy locked under those empathetic eyes.

“Don’t worry, Angel,” her voice was a measure softer as she withdrew her hand. She threw him a quick wink on her way to the hall, and before Angel could stutter out anything meaningful, anything even _coherent,_ she was already well on her way upstairs. “You worry too much!”

And maybe she was right.  
As of late, it definitely felt like he was worrying a whole hell of a lot more than usual. He hated the way it sat low in his stomach, knotting up his insides like so many spools of thread come undone. It wasn’t the type of ache you could take something for, either — _especially_ if you wanted to stay clean. 

Upstairs, Charlie hesitated outside of Alastor’s door, her hands holding tight to the tray as she breathed a steadying breath. She wasn’t afraid, no — but she could recognize the severity of the situation. She reached forward, her fingertips lingering on the doorknob, and though she wasn’t sure what she might open herself up to by pressing forward, she knew the responsibility was hers. She could handle the Radio Demon; she would have to.

Something stirred inside her, the words resurfacing again: _you don’t take shit from other demons._

“Alastor?” She thought better of trying the knob, opting instead for a gentle rap on the door. It occurred to her after an uncomfortable beat of silence that the storm must have swallowed the very sound of it. She tried again, louder this time.

And when a third and final knock — timed to the rhythm of a song she could vaguely recall Alastor humming now and again — failed to summon the Radio Demon, she frowned, and put forth all her conviction into turning the door handle. To her surprise, it opened easily.

The door squealed as she let it swing inward on itself, exposing the corners of Alastor’s suite to the light outside. The room was much more massive than seemed possible: the architecture of the building folding in on itself to accommodate the half of his room swallowed by an endless bayou swamp. Old, rotted trees reached skyward to the ceiling — and well beyond, as their roots drank deeply from the murky water. Where the bayou ended, the bedroom began; fanciful linens and old, finely carved wooden furniture made up the bulk of Alastor’s decor. A cathedral style radio sat proudly atop his nightstand, the wood a burnished yellow-brown. Its receiver, Charlie noted, glowed faintly in the lowlight.

“...Alastor?”

But he was still. His eyes were closed, but that amber glow bled softly from his eyelids as his mouth held its usual grin. His body was irregularly tense, the thinness of his frame exaggerated by the way his bones seemed tightly set to the mattress below. Charlie hurried to set down the tray, but before she could so much as graze him, Alastor had snatched her hand from the air.

_“Ah, ah, princess. No touching.”_

She felt her heart in her throat. Alastor peeked an eye open, his grin shifting into a comfortable, toothy smile as he released her. Her stomach flipped, her emotions colliding in an instance of rage, humiliation, _relief._

“Husk was right.” Charlie huffed, moving to sit on the edge of the bed by Alastor’s legs. The mattress was surprisingly cushy, considering its owner. “You _are the worst.”_

Alastor threw back his head and laughed, the static bubbling visibly in the airspace. For an instant, Charlie regretted her decision, but something in his eyes assuaged her unease.

“Oh, how right you are, my dear!” He chuckled a little longer, his fingers knotting themselves so tightly Charlie could hear the leather of his gloves catching and tensing. “I seem to be a little _under the weather!”_

He played his awful laugh track again. Or, Charlie worried, the laugh track was playing him. The cacophony of voices undulated against the other vibrations clouding the air, the sound crushed, contorted almost beyond recognition. She furrowed her brow, reaching a tentative hand to rest atop Alastor’s. “You don’t look so good, Al.”

He smiled. It wasn’t his usual grin, though — no, there were no teeth on display this time, only a trace of bemusement. He seemed to pause, his eyes slowly tracing the scope of the room, before landing again on Charlie’s face — and then, the tray to the side of the bed.

Oh?

In a moment of concentration, he slowly pushed himself upright, his arms working slowly and methodically to support his wiry frame. Charlie’s face lit up — but it wasn’t her usual excitement, no. Alastor could read pity.

“I made tea,” she began, and she moved to help him, her hands supporting the cup until she was certain he had a proper grip. Alastor inhaled deeply, deliberately, as he stared into the liquid’s golden surface. It was a vaguely familiar smell: hot, pungent, a touch sweeter than blood or berries alone.

Charlie took the second cup between her own hands, letting the steam dance towards her face as she took the first sip. She could feel Alastor assessing her own enjoyment of the drink, but as he followed her motions, she found she didn’t mind. “I figured it might help! Tea’s great for when you’re feeling down.”

It was disgusting, but he wore his smile nonetheless, feigning enjoyment as he took another swallow. The bitterness danced along his tongue, but it was altogether too busy, trying to be too many things at once. It lacked complexity in its very desire to appear sophisticated.

“...Thank you, Charlie.” His words were coupled with static, but surprisingly soft. He took another long sip, letting it sit against his taste buds in an effort to better appreciate the flavor.

No, it was still utterly foul.

They sat like that for a time, a comfortable silence interlaced with pips of static and rainfall. Alastor’s eyes had yet to cool, and Charlie set her cheek in her hand as she appraised his condition.

“...You know,” she smiled that warm, painfully sympathetic smile of hers. “Angel’s pretty worried about you. I mean, we’re all worried, of course.” But she leaned into the first thought.

Angel Dust was… _worried?_

Well, that would do nobody any good. Despite his condition, Alastor was relatively — _mostly_ — certain that he wasn’t a danger to the hotel or its residents. He supposed he could understand their unease, but… Was Angel afraid?

He seemed to be emitting some new sort of static, given the way Charlie was staring. Alastor carefully set his cup aside, his fingers meticulously straightening the material of his gloves. He found his thoughts were clearer, now, ushered more easily forth as Charlie coaxed the conversation.

“I’m terribly sorry he feels that way.”

Alastor couldn’t entirely understand Charlie’s facial expression. He blinked, tilting his head once more as she pointedly raised an eyebrow. Her eyes were fixed on him, even as she took another slow sip of tea.

It was almost like she was letting him think on his final answer.

“That is to say…” Alastor went quiet, the gears inside turning and twisting. There was that uncomfortable, unknown feeling again. "I… appreciate… the concern…?”

Yes, judging by the thumbs up she flashed him, that was the correct response. Alastor breathed a quick sigh — of relief or annoyance he wasn’t entirely sure — and closed his eyes. He let his head rest against the pillows, and for once, appreciated the cool feeling against his skin. It never lasted long.

No, never long...

Charlie finished her tea, and as carefully and quietly as she could manage, gathered up the dishes and let herself out with but one final glance back at Alastor’s sleeping form. A gentle hum filled the room, and though it carried no tune, it was most certainly coming from the Radio Demon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your wonderful comments! I hope you enjoy this chapter. It was very refreshing to write some light gore/body horror content.  
> Enjoy! ♥  
> cor.

The air was still. And though nothing moved — nothing _breathed_ — there was an unmistakable sense of rhythm at work. The tempo was off, the very architecture of the place undulating just below the surface like some primal living thing aching for freedom.

But there was nothing.

Alastor stood at the centre of it all, a veritable valley of oblivion spanning out in every direction. To say that there was _nothing_ was not entirely correct, for nothing implied the existence of _something_ to offset from. It indicated beginning, middle, end: a natural cohesion. But this place stretched on unfathomably, retaining and becoming _nothing_ save for stark, blinding whiteness in every direction — though _direction_ , too, had lost its meaning.

He took a cautious step forward, his cloven shoes touching soundlessly upon what constituted a floor. The space around him felt transparent — as though his feet could pass through if his focus wavered. His limbs felt slow and heavy: weighted pendulums swinging sluggishly against the flow of time.

He opened his mouth to speak, but in that moment it occurred to him that he no longer _had_ a mouth to speak with.

A fizz of static had overtaken his facial features, rendering his trademark grin unrecognizable as arms of pixelation climbed further, burning holes through facade and skin alike. The sensation wasn’t painful _by definition_ — even as the static warped and burrowed his skin, stealing and ripping his likeness piece by excruciating piece. No, even as he reached his hands to his face, his fingertips dancing through the sting of interference and into his flesh, it wasn’t painful — it was _pure exhilaration._

And it was addling his senses, even as he removed his hands. Tremors had settled into his wrists, his fingers twitching as his gloves peeled themselves away. He could feel the static licking his skin raw, coaxing the blood to the surface for the first time in such a long, _long_ time. His breath tried to hitch in his throat but his organs were shuffling, rearranging themselves as the static dissolved his flesh from the inside. The sweet tang of blood pooled against his tongue, hot and hungry and _raw_ as his esophagus collapsed forward onto itself.

He ached to cry out, to groan, to throw back his head and _laugh_ as the searing flames of pain finally branched free, but the void wouldn’t allow it. It swallowed any sound he might have made. Alastor could feel himself choking, his brain dimming as the static chewed apart the rest of his facial features. He felt himself bow to his knees, though he was only vaguely aware of it as his hands tore desperately at his throat, his claws as keen to flay his flesh as the static itself.

But there was no release.

He shook, writhing — _withering_ — as his body remembered its first death. The static burned, burrowed, broke through his insides, settling somewhere deep in his stomach as the blood flowed forth, staining the stark nothingness of the void into _something._ He felt the blackness lapping at the edges of his vision, and in that moment, he welcomed it.

And when morning came — and it did come, eventually — the Radio Demon lurched upright in his bed, eyes wild and searching, shoulders pulled tight to his torso as he drew a single slicing breath. He could feel his hands shaking. He could feel his body shaking, too, his usual composure utterly undone. A sudden panic cooled his blood, and his hands flew to his mouth.

No, no…  
Everything was where it should be.

He hummed in his throat tentatively, feeling the warmth of his usual static — and though it neither burned nor borrowed, he took it down with a slight turning motion of his fingers. Alastor rubbed a hand against his throat. It took him a moment, but he allowed himself to relax back against the headboard.

He was startled back upright by the sudden pounding at the door.

 _“Ohmygosh, Alastor!”_ The tiny voice stumbled over itself, the words jumbling into one semi-coherent mess. “You’re still asleep?! _You overslept!”_

Oh.  
_Goodness._

Alastor relaxed back into his skin, his weary smile uplifting into a more traditional, inviting smirk as the door swung inward. Niffty scurried inside with blatant intent, her hands brandishing a fluffy duster and an under-sized broom. Her single eye roamed the bedroom, taking in the general cleanliness of the suite with a touch of disappointment.

“Good morning, Niffty, my dear—”

 _“Alastor!_ I was coming to wake you up, but I also wanted to clean so I brought my duster, but your room is _so clean already!”_ She dashed from spot to spot, running a finger along the bedside table in search of dust, but it came back clean.

Her pupil fixed on Alastor’s face as he cocked his head in her direction. There was a warmth to his smile, a simple vulnerability to his bedridden form as he laced his fingers together atop his lap. “I do pride myself on appearances, after all.” 

“I know! I know! It’s just that the storm stopped so now I’m on a _cleaning frenzy_ because _ohmygosh_ you wouldn’t _believe_ how much mud I had to mop up! _So many muddy footprints!”_ Niffty waved her broom for emphasis, hopping from one foot to the other as she mounted the influx of energy that the very _idea_ of a muddy spot granted her. “Especially if patrons have multiple feet! Oh! And then I was cleaning the footprints and I noticed that none of them were yours — because your footprints always stand out — and I thought that was funny, because usually you’re in the foyer or the lobby or the bar and so I _just knew_ you were still asleep!”

Alastor nodded along attentively, but he raised his eyebrows when she mentioned the storm. The rain had ceased overnight — or perhaps sometime this morning, as he wasn’t entirely sure how late he’d slept — and yet he could still feel its tempo. The white noise had lessened, surely, but some fragment remained embedded in his brain. It was no longer tuning into the storm’s rhythm. It was tuning into _his._

Niffty had busied herself with dusting the old radio without so much as a pip of static. No, there was a startling silence to the room itself, even as Alastor hauled his spent body upright and out of bed. He breathed a quiet sigh, savoring the feeling as his lungs expanded. It was a feeling he hadn’t realized he’d been taking for granted.

“Well, my dear,” Alastor smoothed the front of his silk pyjamas as he moved towards the window. Even his sleeping attire was modest and conservative, his top buttoned all the way to the collar, his skin a luxury of a sight to behold. He motioned to the curtains, and they drew themselves apart obediently, the rich red fabric bunching neatly at the sides of the window. “I can assure you that I’m very much awake now.”

Alastor tilted his head as he peered into the streets below. The rain had most certainly ceased its destructive song, though the rest of Hell was still weary from the relative chaos of it all. It would take a few days to properly recover, no matter how dry the streets seemed to be.

He stepped away from the window, Niffty now glued to his side as he apparated his usual attire onto his body. With a split second of hesitation he summoned his microphone, and his shoulders visibly slumped in relief as the damned thing stayed silent.

“You don’t look so good!” Niffty was inspecting him closely. She produced a tape measure from her pocket as she circled around him, her tiny needle-pointed legs scraping ever so slightly against the floorboards. “I mean, you _always_ look good, but you look less-good!”

Niffty gasped, bringing her hands to her mouth. She nearly dropped her tape measure, her eye widening as some sudden realization hit her. She bounced a little, and Alastor merely raised an amused eyebrow.

“Maybe it’s your hair! Let’s do something with your hair, you have bedhead! _You can’t have bedhead!”_

Alastor smiled, summoning forth a cushioned footstool. Its plush edge was detailed with crimson tassels, and they danced back and forth as Niffty climbed to stand atop it.

“If you insist." He kneeled further, bowing his head as she worked her skilled hands through his hair. She was surprisingly careful considering her swiftness — but with Niffty’s speed came precision. She smoothed his hair back easily, her fingers moving deftly between his ears as she pulled his hair into a fluffy ponytail.

“There you go!” She secured it with a small ribbon, hopping down with a quiet giggle as she admired her handiwork from her usual height. “It’s something! And sometimes _something_ can make you feel like a whole new _everything!”_

Alastor smiled as he straightened to his full height. He spun his microphone, the device transforming into a silver-rimmed hand mirror as it reached the arc of its swing. He turned his face, his smile growing into his usual toothy grin as he drunk in his reflection.

It was, indeed, something.

“Is that so?” Alastor chuckled, “I can’t help but agree with you, darling.” 

He banished the mirror as he moved for the door, Niffty trailing on his coattails, her grin mimicking his own. He had an appearance to keep up — a newly improved appearance — as he made for the grand staircase. His body may have been run ragged by the evening’s nightmare excursion, but he hid it well behind that set of teeth.

“I hope I haven’t left anyone waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alastor's muteness during the nightmare sequence was partially inspired by Abbytherat's wonderful fic [Signing On](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21453259/chapters/51123010), and the static-mouth effect was partially inspired by [this piece of fanart](https://twitter.com/ShoutinS/status/1193267013130452992) by ShoutinS!
> 
> ...and Alastor's ponytail was inspired by about a billion different pieces of fanart, hehe.
> 
> This fandom is full of amazing creators and I'm very happy to be part of it!  
> cor.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience with getting this one out! I hope everyone enjoys a happy holiday!  
> Also, many thanks to my partner for helping pick everyone's drink of choice. ♥
> 
> cor.

The telltale crimson light of mid-afternoon swam sweetly through the stained glass windows, pouring into the Happy Hotel and washing across its floorboards as though Lucifer himself had left the proverbial bathtub running. The warmth was appreciated — particularly by Husk, who would never admit to lingering in the one spot behind the bar where two windows overlapped one another. He stood there now, his chin resting in one of his clawed hands, the other absently stirring his drink. It was still half full — or half _empty,_ rather — which was quite the achievement for half-past noon. Especially considering his company.

“...and I mean, I _get_ that they wan’ me ta be on my best behaviour or whatever, but they don’ expect me to just give up _everything_ fun, right?” 

Angel Dust sat perched on his usual bar stool, one slender leg crossed delicately over the other. He was frowning, though it dripped into his drink as he took a long, thoughtful sip from the martini glass cradled in his third hand. “ _You_ still drink all goddamn day, and I betchur still itchin’ for a game of cards, huh?”

Husk snorted. He reached a hand over lazily, barely glancing at Angel or his martini glass as he topped off his drink. Gossip over drinks had become a bit of a daily occurrence with Angel, as much as he loathed to admit any sort of comradery between them. “Yeah, whatever, kid.”

Not that it was _anyone’s fucking business,_ but he hadn’t touched a hand of cards in a good six weeks. It helped that Alastor was “minding” his paychecks for him, with or without his consent. The guy was a manipulative bastard with a keen eye for weakness, but he didn’t _always_ use it maliciously. At least, Husk mused, _this_ time is seemed to be for his own good.

He took another swig of his drink, eyeing the amber liquor as it swirled the glass’s edge. Bourbon on the rocks — with a touch of bitters and some orange rind, it would be right up the Radio Demon’s alley.

Where _was_ that scarlet fucker, anyway?

Husk glanced towards the old grandfather clock, squinting at the hands as they quietly made time. The _tick, tock, tick_ was usually drowned out by the alcohol — or by some sinner’s incessant ramblings, as the situation was.

“...an’ Niffty, I mean, what even is her poison? She’s fuckin’ _jolly_ as long as she’s got somethin’ to clean or sew or whatever.” Angel propped his cheek in his hand, mimicking Husk from across the bar top. “An’ Alastor’s _always_ in a good mood — are they still lettin’ him do his murder thing? That’s his thing, right? Killin’?” He made an exaggerated stabbing motion with one of his hands.

Husk was only vaguely listening, though Angel had expected as much. He pursed his lips before taking another slow sip, following his gaze towards the clock. Angel perked an eyebrow. “What? You got somewhere ta be?”

“He’s late.”

“Who, Al?” Angel furrowed his brow, knitting two hands together under his chin. Something had seemed a little off when he woke to a quiet, empty foyer, but it hadn’t exactly dawned on him that Alastor was the “something” that was missing. He found himself re-tracking the events of the day before, and he couldn’t shake the memory of Charlie climbing the stairs to Alastor’s room.

_You worry too much!_

“He’s ordered an old fashioned at twelve o’clock everyday since we started this stupid thing.” Husk was grumbling as he downed the last of his drink. He pulled himself from the countertop with a tired sigh, his back to Angel as he tended to the growing stack of dirty glasses. “ _On the dot._ He’s a fuckin’ bastard, but he’s punctual about it.”

“Why, Husker, _my good fellow,_ I didn’t know _you cared!”_

The static dripped like polished rubies from his grinning maw, his overcoat flowing easily as he descended the grand staircase. There was a hum to the air, a palpable energy — but it was contained, controlled, _chained_ to his body— as Alastor strode towards the bar. He moved with his usual easy confidence, but the smile he wore was slightly askew.

“Well, I’m _parched!”_ Alastor opened his arms wide, clapping a gloved hand upon Angel’s shoulder as he settled onto the stool next to him. He knitted those gloved fingers together atop the bar, his eyes half lidded and relaxed, his shoulders at ease.

But Angel’s smile dipped as he peered a little closer.

“Al… You feelin’ better?” Angel felt the concern edging into his voice, and he quirked his lips, unable to safely stow the feeling away for later. Just how long had that been waiting to worm its way out of his facade? Sure, it wasn’t unusual for him to show a little empathy — especially towards the folks at the Happy Hotel — but it was beginning to feel a little _too_ genuine for his liking. Angel ran a finger idly along the rim of his glass, momentarily pulled back to last night’s encounter with Charlie.

_You’re worried._

The unspoken ending to that statement was becoming painfully obvious now, except Angel’s hands were already full of cards he couldn’t play and he _desperately_ wanted to leave that one face-down on the table.

Why turn it over and raise the stakes now?

_You’re worried about him._

“Yes, indeed! Right as _rain!”_ Alastor crooned, his grin growing a fraction wider. This one was more difficult to decipher — but it lingered only momentarily as the Radio Demon broke eye contact. He breathed in deeply, and this time, the smile was surprisingly modest.

Behind the bar, Husk was running an orange peel along the lip of a small glass. The sweet scent of lightly singed citrus danced alongside the woody kick of the bourbon like well-rehearsed partners, and Alastor all but cradled the glass between his hands when Husk slid it across the bar top. It was as brightly amber as fresh honey, and when Alastor took it to his lips, Angel Dust couldn’t help but stare.

Alastor _wasn’t_ at ease — the easy slope of his posture, the unguarded way he held his smile, the _bags under his eyes_ — he was _exhausted._ Angel furrowed his brow, his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands as he kept them resting beneath the bar top. He wanted desperately to reach out, to lay a gentle hand upon his arm, to murmur something reassuring. There was a tiredness behind those deep red pools that Angel had never seen before, and it made him _ache._

It made him sick to his stomach.

“Oh, oh, oh, _Husk!”_

Niffty poked out from behind Alastor, her eye wide with excitement as she rocked back and forth on her feet. Her duster was surprisingly absent as she clapped her hands together, her giggles like so many tiny bells. “Grasshopper, _please! Pretty please!”_

“Yeah, okay, you wanna flash some ID or somethin’, kid?” Husk chuckled as he retrieved a fresh martini glass, wiping it down with a clean cloth for a second time, more thorough time. He fished around for various bottles of liqueur, the glass tingling against his claws as he worked. There was a faint smile to his face, and it was surprisingly sober.

“Awww, I musta left it on Earth!” Niffty patted herself down dramatically, stifling back another giggle as Alastor helped her up the bar stool. She folded her hands neatly in the bunches of skirt fabric, her teeth flashing like dagger points as her eye narrowed. “Maybe you could let it slide, _mister?_ ”

“I’ll happily vouch for the young lady.” Alastor and Niffty exchanged a glance, and their smiles grew all the more self-satisfied — especially as Husk rolled his eyes.

“Hey, uh…” Angel took another sip from his glass, though it was virtually empty at this point. The warmth of the alcohol in his belly made him feel warm and relaxed — and sluggish, though admittedly it dulled the twist in his stomach. He peered past Alastor to catch sight of Niffty’s drink as Husk placed it daintily atop a coaster. Pastel green and edged in chocolate shavings, he could smell the mint from two seats down. “I know I’m a bad influence an’ all, but ain’t it a bit early for day drinkin’?”

The other three laughed almost in unison.

“Angel, my dear,” Alastor drawled, his crimson eyes as warm and inviting as an entire bottle of bourbon. He set his finished glass down with a quiet _clink_ , and Angel couldn’t help but watch those spindly fingers move to fold seamlessly beneath Alastor’s chin. “It’s _never too early_ if you keep the right company.”

He was locked there, pinned beneath the Radio Demon’s gaze. Angel gave a weak chuckle as he raised his empty glass. He could feel his face heating up. 

“Heh. I s’pose yer right.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for how delayed this chapter was! Holidays and the new semester have hit me hard, but I'll do my best to be more on top of updates.  
> Thank you for understanding!
> 
> enjoy! ♥  
> cor.

Mid-afternoon had matured into evening seamlessly, the warm red light that streamed through the windows growing deeper with each passing hour. The foyer sat empty save for the shadows that slowly stretched over its freshly-polished floorboards as Niffty made her rounds, seemingly unbothered by the relative silence. But for some, the quiet had settled over the hotel like a thickly-knit blanket, and it was proving to be more than a little suffocating.

Angel breathed a narrow sigh as he swirled his drink. The melting ice cubes clinked softly against the glass, little more than whispers of the cocktail it’d been almost half an hour ago. He quirked his lips in annoyance, rising from his seat with all the languide elegance of a pampered housecat. 

Watered down alcohol in a fancy glass was still _just water_ — and a complete and utter waste of the good stuff. Husk was already shooting him a nastier-than-usual glare as he swiped Angel’s glass from the bartop.

“Yeah, sorry, bud.” Angel rolled his shoulders back, feeling the stiffness that had settled there. It must have only been an hour or so, but the hotel had devolved into a silence so still that it was punctuated only by the sound of Niffty’s sweeping.

He wanted desperately to break that silence — but his voice caught in his throat at the very idea. Angel swallowed his doubt, glancing through the open archway towards the foyer. But it was empty all the same.

“Am I missin’ somethin’? It’s a fuckin’ _crypt_ in here.” Angel wrapped two of his arms around himself, a sudden chill settling at his core as peered back at Husk — but he offered nothing beyond a petulant shrug as he poured himself another glass of something stupid strong.

“...Where th’ _fuck_ is Charlie…” He shivered as he crept into the other room, his features pulled taut and narrow as he frowned. The entire affair had his fur fluffed in anticipation, and his extra set of hands were fidgeting nervously even as he tried to busy them with adjusting his outfit. 

But the hotel slumbered against the dim backdrop of early evening all the same. Any residents who _had_ been out and about during the day were tightly tucked inside their rooms, with only few exceptions. Angel breathed another sigh, sucking the air into his cheeks for a half second, savoring the moment of clarity as it slowed his anxious thoughts. The place hadn’t been _this_ abandoned since he first turned up — and even then, Charlie’s disposition had been more than enough to simulate the liveliness of a lived-in place.

A soft sound caught his attention, and Angel whipped his head up towards the grand staircase.

“Uhh… Niffty? What’cha doin’?”

She was standing on her tiptoes, completely engrossed in the task at hand as she polished the staircase’s intricate banister. Niffty paused a moment, her mouth scrunched into a tiny pout, her hands finding her hips as she puffed out her chest.

“This thing’s an absolute magnet for fingerprints!” Niffty leaned extra close to the railing, her pupil constricting as she looked back to Angel. “I just _can’t stand_ fingerprints! And nobody’s around to go touching it again, so it’s the perfect time to polish it!”

There was a palpable pause as Niffty’s needle-pointed smile stretched the width of her face.  
“ _You’re not going to ruin it,_ right, Angel?”

“Ah… Nah. Nah.” He hurriedly tucked all four of his hands out of sight, chuckling a bit. “Never used them things when I was alive, don’t need to now’s I’m dead.”

She seemed to consider his answer, and, finding no faults in his logic, resumed the task at hand with her usual boundless energy. Her smile had resumed its unassuming size and shape, her pupil dilating back to normal size as she nodded enthusiastically. “Well, okay! You get to keep your hands.”

He was sure to keep them tucked behind his back as he leaned over, drawing out his words tentatively. “... So… Where _is_ everybody? I mean, normally I don’t really care, but… It’s, y’know…” Angel’s hands came from behind his back to gesture wildly at nothing. “...Creepy. It’s creepy!”

Niffty tilted her head at him, stifling a giggle behind her hands as she seemed to digest his blatant discomfort. “Ohh, _ohmygosh,_ you’re lonely! It’s okay, Charlie and Vaggie went out to pick up some things, but I’m sure they’ll be back later!” She flicked her dust rag in his direction playfully, her toothy grin looking all the more like a smirk.

“Wh— no, I ain’t—” Angel’s face pinched into that of utter disgust, his hands planting themselves firmly at his hips as he towered over her. “I’m not _lonely!”_

“Okay, okay.” Niffty busied herself with the banister again, and though her back was turned to him, Angel could _feel_ her self-satisfied smile. It was all too similar to someone else’s.

Speaking of, where was Alastor?  
He swore it had only been an hour or so since they’d been sharing drinks and smiles across the bar, but time was beginning to feel untrustworthy — _slanted_ and thin. And he absolutely hated how the very idea of it all sent shivers down his spine.

“So, what about Al?” Angel glanced up along the curve of the staircase, his eyes searching the shadows there. “Where’d he get off to, anyway?”

The mention was enough to slow Niffty’s frantic movements. She folded her cleaning cloth in her hands, her mouth contorting as she sampled her words before speaking them. “...He said he wasn’t… feeling well.”

The mere second of silence felt like it stretched on eternally.

“...What’dya mean _not feelin’ well?”_

Angel was already scaling the staircase before Niffty could find the words to stop him. There was something stirring in his stomach, some fluttering fragment of anxiety that threatened to twist his insides. He was warm in the face, but his limbs felt cool by comparison — the sensation was nearly as uncomfortable as the rapid hammering of his heart as it fought against the confines of his ribcage.

 _Not feeling well?_  
_Of course_ he wasn’t _feeling well._ It had been written all over his face during drinks, no matter how well Alastor tried to conceal it behind his usual upbeat friendliness. _Pain_ wasn’t a state that Angel had ever considered Alastor to experience beyond its infliction upon others, but it had been coded into the very architecture of his smile only an hour before.

And the very thought of that made his stomach clench tighter. _Painfully_ tight. Something was wrong.

“Hey, Al? If this shit’s locked, you betta come _unlock_ it.” Angel rattled the knob to Alastor’s room, his eyes widening as it turned seamlessly in its mechanism. He leaned close to the crack, squinting into the darkness — but to no avail. The blackness was unnaturally resilient, even as Angel pulled the door open enough to step inside.

It was dark.  
But it wasn’t silent anymore.

The air all but _burned_ with static, the hiss and hum of interchanging frequencies competing with one another against an underlying tonal spike. The feedback dialed back and forth, the sounds a chorus of utterly discordant noise as split-seconds of instruments and voices and indiscernible sound spoke on top of one another. It was like screaming — it _was_ screaming, Angel realized.

“...Al…?” His limbs were absolutely rigid, the muscles set tight against his posture as he struggled to reach a hand towards the source of the sound. 

Angel held his breath in his throat, his body tensed in preparation for _something _that was sure to come. His skin all but tingled in anticipation as the static seemed to resonate around him, its pitch warbling unpredictably like a snarling beast encircling its prey. He could feel the static struggling to manifest, each violent spike of feedback brushing against his skin like an assortment of tiny pins.__

__And then his hand closed against cloth — _warm cloth._  
Alastor._ _

__The static fizzed to a new high, the feedback shrieking and popping as Angel grabbed for Alastor. No matter how hard he peered through the darkness, it was as though the Radio Demon himself remained entirely cloaked — but it was definitely Alastor. There was no mistaking the exaggerated proportions of the figure in his arms._ _

__But the sound was deafening as he pulled Alastor toward the door. It was unmistakably emanating from the Radio Demon himself, but the inscrutable darkness was what Angel could only assume to be some byproduct of the room itself — or its reliance on Alastor’s powers. The static was bleeding proper words, now, the voice little more than a poor approximation of the real Alastor._ _

__Angel felt his blood run absolutely frigid in his veins._ _

____**whAT CAN— and WHAT CAN yOU DO— aND—  
MY EFFEMINate fell—  
CAN YOU— do—**_ _ _ _

__Angel Dust pulled the door closed behind them, his other three hands tightly clutching Alastor’s limp form against himself. He could feel his heart in his throat, his breath coming in ragged gasps._ _

__The sounds had stopped.  
_Completely_ stopped._ _

__Not that he was sure he would have heard it beyond the thundering sound of his own rapid heartbeat, anyway. Angel leaned heavily against the wall, staggering mostly against his own exhaustion — Alastor’s weight was surprisingly minor, though he supposed it made sense given the figure Hell had given him._ _

__“God _damn_ it.” Angel scrubbed a hand across his face, his shoulders slumping as he slid down the length of the wall to sit at its base. Alastor’s form crumpled against him, his head lolling against Angel’s shoulder._ _

__They sat that way for a quiet moment, Angel no longer resenting the blanket of silence draped across them. He could feel the heat in his face again, and this time it was painfully obvious as to its source._ _

__“...Al, I know ya ain’t double-dead, so ya better wake up already.” Angel’s arms were still looped protectively around Alastor, though his eyes were busily counting ceiling tiles. He knew he wouldn’t be able to avert his gaze if he looked too closely at Alastor’s unconscious, naked face._ _

__“Just… wake up.” He bit his lip, chancing a glance down at the Radio Demon bundled helplessly in his arms. It was virtually overloading his emotional circuits. It was absolutely against everything his mind was screaming at him. It was entirely out of the bounds of their friendship, and yet — _was_ it? He could feel his mind running laps around the subject, but it was impossible to slow that rapid stem of thoughts once it started up. Maybe Charlie was right — maybe he _was_ worried about Alastor — but the feeling came so naturally it frightened him._ _

__“...Angel Dust?”_ _


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, this one was really fun! Thank you all so much for the wonderful comments on the last chapter. They really inspired me to get to work on this one asap!  
> Enjoy! ♥
> 
> cor.

Night was settling in all too comfortably. Downstairs, the curtains had been drawn — a poor attempt to ward off the darkness that was already residing inside the Happy Hotel. The hallways yawned long, narrow shadows that pooled all too easily along the floorboards. Evening had brought an unmistakable coolness with it. Thick, restless clouds crowded the night’s backdrop, cloaking even the brightest scar in the evening sky.

And inside the hotel, Angel and Alastor were haphazardly bundled together on the floor of the second story.

“...Look, don’t— ...don’t be pissed I was in yer room, okay?” Angel was staring up at the ceiling again, his eyes idly picking out every knick and imperfection. Alastor was still pulled tight to his side, his two left arms like a comfortably weighted blanket. He breathed a vague sigh, but he refused to lower his gaze to Alastor’s. He could already _feel_ the inevitable ire of the venom distilled there — he didn’t need the visual confirmation. “I mean, _ideally,_ just don’t be pissed, but—”

“Angel, you _wound me.”_

The levity of the tone took him by surprise. He lowered his eyes from the ceiling, cocking his head a touch. Alastor’s face had restored itself to its usual grinning glory, but the smile was far more subdued — more genuine. In that moment, there seemed to be very little intent hiding behind those pointed teeth, and it took Angel a half second to process the expression.

“Huh?”

“Now, I’m not entirely sure as to what happened here.” Alastor admitted, his gloved fingers carefully — _almost_ gently — peeling back Angel’s protective grip as he spoke. “...But you needn’t assume anger to be my gut reaction.”

Alastor seemed to consider his words for an extra half second, chuckling wryly to himself.  
“... _Usually.”_

“Right.” Angel put his hands in his lap, adjusting the fit of his gloves. He had never been a particularly modest nor easily flustered demon, but _this_ was completely beyond his usual circumstances. It was becoming more and more difficult to dodge eye contact, especially as Alastor leaned a fraction closer. It was becoming more and more difficult to justify _why_ he wouldn’t meet that gaze.

It was becoming excruciating.

“If I’m understanding things correctly...” Alastor’s tone was low and level, coded with only the slightest static intrusion. His words, like his expression, were grazing the fragments of his humanity. “It would seem you came to my aid, Angel Dust.”

“Uhh… Yeah, I guess I did.” Angel frowned, chancing a quick sidelong glance. It was difficult to place, but there was something altogether off about Alastor’s demeanor. His smile and his eyes weren’t meshing — his very energy, usually so captivatingly over the top as he performed, was withdrawn. Subdued.

He was tired. It was written well beyond words into his very being.  
Utter exhaustion.

“...Al? I’m gonna ask you this again, but I wan’ you to answer for real this time.” Angel met his gaze. He could feel his face heating up again, but he leaned into the sensation. “Are you okay?”

Alastor tilted his head. His smile grew a half fraction, but the expression failed to meet his eyes. Those eyes, usually so piercingly precise in their attention to detail, seemed to be pointed _inward_ this time.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words were perforated by static. The frequency was off, the sound rough and unpolished. Somehow, Alastor’s voice was lower quality than usual — a damaged record struggling to play under the needle’s point.

“...I’m afraid not.”

His words hung in the air for a moment, the static almost palpable. 

Angel Dust furrowed his brow. He could feel his hands clenching in his lap, his fists tight as he desperately examined his own anger. There was something so uncomfortably _guttural_ about the way his stomach wrapped itself into cold, tight knots. He could feel his pulse in his throat, and all the while, Alastor was still wearing that _stupid_ forced smile.

“Well, now!” Alastor grinned in his direction, his gaze a mere imitation of its usual potency. “You seem to be a little off yourself, my dear.”

“Oh, _I’m_ off?” He all but spat the words, unable to restrain himself from leaning into Alastor’s space. The Radio Demon obliged easily, leaning back in time with his movements, his smile never wavering — until two sets of hands closed around his arms, holding him still. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Angel Dust. The five foot rule, if you please.”

“Why do I _even care about you?”_ Angel’s eyes were practically aflame, the visceral emotion rivaling Alastor’s own intensity. His fingers tightened alongside his jaw, claws pinching cloth and skin alike as he held his grip. “You’re _The Radio Demon!_ You’re _untouchable!_ An’ you act like a fuckin’ _mannequin_ when— when I just wanna _help you!”_

The static had grown to an immeasurable pitch and volume, the shrieking feedback finding purchase in every ounce of dead air. The hallway shadows pulled and pooled together, flickering erratically as the spatial confines bent alongside Alastor’s tightening grip. His eyes were gone, now — hollowed out instead by twin dials that trembled between frequencies. The very atmosphere seemed to fold, molecules vibrating amidst the sheer mass of volume as sound itself began to unravel beyond comprehension. Black, inky matter pressed against the budding portals, struggling for purchase against the dwindling spatial tears. 

But beneath the extravagant static, Alastor was shaking.

“Al—” Angel tightened his grip, squinting against the onslaught of sound. The air had grown tight and heavy, threatening to snap like a thread pulled taut at the edges. Darkness crept into the edges of his vision, languid shadows licking at the bare expanses of his arms.

 _“Alastor! Stop!”_  
A half second of silence. _Pure_ silence. Shadows dispersed just as quickly as they had apparated, the scattered spatial tears closing back against the darkness like so many complicit eyes. But the air remained dense, thick with potent energy.

Charlie towered at the end of the hallway.  
Her horns were eerily prominent, the points stretching just shy of grazing the ceiling, her scarlet eyes alight against the darkness. Vaggie’s silhouette stood somewhere behind her, but her presence was virtually inconsequential by comparison.

 _“What are you doing?”_ Charlie’s voice cut through like a knife point.

But there was little to answer with. Alastor had slumped in on himself, his body folding easily as his hands cradled his sickly face. Sanguine liquid stained the black of his gloves a lovely merlot, the drops beading along the stitched details like so many tiny rubies. Angel reached a tentative hand to help steady him, his mouth knit into a tight frown.

Charlie, meanwhile, had resumed her usual form. She hurried over to Angel’s side, eyes wide and brimming with worry as she planted her hands on his shoulders. Alastor had gone nearly completely limp in Angel’s embrace, blood streaking through his fur in abstract, filthy patterns.

“...What happened?” Charlie’s voice was surprisingly small. She cast a glance towards Vaggie, but even she seemed at a loss for words.

“I don’ have a fuckin’ _clue.”_ The words were harsh, but he breathed them gently as he maneuvered Alastor in his arms. Angel paused a half second, as though testing the limits of their physical contact, before rising to his full height. As Alastor lay limp in Angel’s arms, it became abundantly clear that the bloodied smears were weeping forth from his eyes in thick, meandering clots. “But somethin’s _seriously wrong_ with Al.”

Alastor, meanwhile, lay still and silent. Only his eyelids twitched as he dreamt, utterly and irrevocably asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of your super-inspiring comments! To be honest, I don't always know where the story is going, so I appreciate all of your guesses and suggestions!
> 
> Anyway, things are getting dire.
> 
> Enjoy! ♥  
> cor.

Silence.

There was nothing — only a quiet so thorough in its construction that it seemed tangible in the very atmosphere. There was little more than an overwhelming sense of utter _nothingness._

Still. Stale. _Dead._

And yet, that wasn’t entirely true. 

Something _was_ present in the fog of silence: some unknowable, indescribable undulation that seemed beyond the principles of sound itself. It pushed and pulled the surrounding quiet at its own unrhythmic discretion, manipulating the very void like a heavy cloak around its featureless presence. 

And he was there.  
Alastor, the Radio Demon — _here_ again.  
Nowhere.

He blinked his eyes blearily against the fog of absolute _nothingness,_ his hands shaking as he reached for his face. Boney fingers traced the sharp curve of his smile, the slope of his cheekbones, the dip and valley of his orbital sockets. It was all intact — _for now._

But something was decidedly _off._ Though the air was stagnant, it brought with it an unmistakable chill that punctured his very bones. His breath poured forth in faint white wisps, his skin greyer and duller than its usual complexion. There was a heaviness to it all, an omnipresent crushing weight that bowed his head and forced his posture rigid. And it was _real._

Alastor’s hands cautiously crept the length of his face, feeling higher. He swallowed hard, struggling for breath against the thick weight of the air that swirled his head. Static fizzed in his throat, dancing up from his stomach like long-dormant insects finally hatching free. His lips twitched, his smile growing. They’d be _hungry soon — the pain was coming again._

Slowly, he reached higher, his fingers skimming the telltale smooth expanse of actual bone. His usually miniature antlers had branched forth from the crown of his head, fanning and curling around his skull like an enormous wreath of ancient tree boughs. The very size was unfathomable, impractical, _beyond visual comprehension._ He struggled to raise his head, but the weight was staggering — _crushing._

It was futile.  
Alastor clenched his jaw, his knife-pointed teeth slicing the soft flesh of his gums. The pressure was enormous: blood pounded within the confines of his skull, his brain throbbing in tandem with his heartbeat. He vaguely processed his body folding as he sunk to his knees, his hands outstretching in a defiant attempt to keep his face from grazing the semi-transparent ground.

The weight was building. He could feel the corners of his mouth stretching, his smile growing voraciously against the stinging symphony of pain. Spots were forming in his vision, and yet, the rushing sound of blood continued to build, climbing to some unknown crescendo he wasn’t sure he would be conscious to experience. Just how much longer would his neck vertebrae have before they shattered? How would it feel when the bones fragmented, their splinters shredding through fragile nerves and flesh alike? He drew a shaking breath, his lungs swimming with static resonance. His body was reaching its endpoint — his very biology had exceeded its human limits.

But the killing break did not come.

Alastor’s eyes practically bulged from their sockets, his red gaze struggling for comprehension. _Something_ had changed — had apparated within the endless stretch of nothingness. Suddenly, _something_ was present and fully-formed. _Something_ was standing before him, its shape and its posture all too familiar.

A ghostly hand wrapped its claws around his chin, tilting Alastor’s face upwards. Its strength was virtually infinite, unbound by the properties of his own impending demise. He struggled to focus his eyes, his jagged smile never wavering.

And it was mirroring that grin.  
_Him. Them.  
His shadow._

Its grip tightened, clawed fingers gouging into the flesh of his skin. Its very presence coaxed the static’s frenzy forward. The interference building inside him shifted unpredictably between frequencies, the palpable sound cutting against his internal organs like so many hungry teeth — and all the while, the longer they touched, the hotter his flesh burned from the contact.

But it all felt so _satisfying._

Its very presence seemed to lull his thoughts, its shadowed hands supporting Alastor’s head as his body began to give. He could feel his stomach splitting from the inside, his mouth welling up with sanguine liquid too precious to relinquish unto the spotless white void. But the hands holding his face were in control; ghostly fingers traced the edges of his pale lips, claws inserting themselves at the corners to anchor his mouth into an open position. 

Alastor was vaguely aware of the blood spilling forth from his mouth. But he was ultimately unable — _unwilling_ — to stem the flow. He could feel his eyes sliding shut under the immense weight of it all. He could feel his blood cooling as it left his body. He could feel the knife-like fingers traveling his face.

And then he couldn’t.

Night had overtaken the Happy Hotel with little resistance. Faint lamplight flickered forth from underneath closed doors, but the majority of the building’s vast floor plan was resigned to darkness until morning could breach the evening’s hold. Outside, the faint patter of rain danced along the hotel’s stonework.

It was the hum of the rainfall that Alastor recognized first. Slowly, carefully, he opened his ruby eyes to the waking world again, his eyelids all but blistered by weariness. He was only vaguely aware of his surroundings: the plush mattress below him, the warmth of the blanket above. Something deeply sweet touched his senses — the residual scent ingrained into a bed that was very much not his own.

He briefly registered the dancing cadence of voices intermingling around him, but it was altogether overwhelming. The sounds, the scents, the light dripping in past his bleary eyelids — it was _too much._

“—...Al? Al. Look, he’s wakin’ up.”

“Angel, don’t touch him.”

“Awh, fuck off — you don’t know shit.”

 _“Exactly, we_ don’t know what’s _wrong with him!”_

There was a hand resting gingerly in his hair, smoothing his forelocks back into place. Alastor had felt Angel’s impulsive touch too many times to count, but never before had those hands been stripped of their gloves. No, Angel’s touch was utterly naked this time, his long fingers covered in a short, soft velvet not entirely unlike the rest of his fur.

It was... tolerable, Alastor decided — though his mind could hardly piece the thought together.

“Vaggie, it’s probably fine—” Charlie stood between Angel and Vaggie, her hands moving reassuringly as she spoke, though her motions proved her own uncertainty. She knitted her eyebrows together, placing a hand on Vaggie’s arm as she coaxed her outrage down to cinders. “I mean, if anything… Like _that_ happens again… I can handle it— I’ll handle it.”

Vaggie’s shoulders slumped some, her arms unfolding as she lowered her defences. She reached a hand to tuck Charlie’s hair behind her ear, a faint smile quirking her frown out of place. “Hun… We don’t know _what_ he’ll do in this state.”

“You mean _bedridden?”_ Angel’s voice carried its usual snappiness, but there was something more urgent in his undertone. He cast a dim scowl in Vaggie’s general direction as she rolled her eyes.

“Guys, please…” Charlie breathed a sigh, clasping her hands together as her eyes drifted to the floor. “Can you not fight… right _now?”_

There was a beat of silence as Angel and Vaggie exchanged tight glances, neither willing to break their pained truce. Angel puffed up his fur indignantly, but held his tongue; it would have to do.

“Uhmm… Excuse me— I usually knock, but I thought that maybe I should just come in quietly, but now I’m thinking maybe I should have knocked, but…Oh! I’m sorry, I’ll knock next time.” The door opened softly on its hinges as Niffty peeked inside, her eye wide with obvious concern. She was clutching her usual duster, gesturing rapidly as the words poured forth from her mouth. “But— is he okay? Is he awake? Is he going to wake up soon if he’s not awake?”

Charlie and Vaggie exchanged a quick look.

“Niffty…” Charlie began carefully, her mouth twisted into an uncharacteristic frown. “...Do you know something about this?”

Vaggie had moved to close the door. She stood behind Niffty like a sentinel, guarding the only obvious exit. Angel, too, had looked up from Alastor’s barely-conscious face at this point, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Well— ...I mean… It wasn’t _the same_ last time, but—” Niffty’s mouth spread to a nervous grin, her hands clutching her duster as she shifted from foot to foot. Her usual demeanor was warped by anxiety, her ceaseless energy transmuted into nervous ticks as a clumsy laugh escaped her.

Rain streamed down the hundreds of windows dotting the Happy Hotel’s visage, its patter growing to a steady hum. The rhythm was vague — but ultimately present as the rain’s tuneless song grew in speed and volume. The night was heavy with rainfall destined for morning’s daylight.

“So tell us about _last time.”_ Vaggie was already coaxing Niffty towards one of the comfortable armchairs near the bed.

Angel, meanwhile, continued his soothing motions. It was becoming increasingly difficult to contain his worry as he drank in every fatigued feature of Alastor’s face. The Radio Demon was utterly naked without his smile — and it frightened Angel beyond words.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this dissociate episode-fueled chapter.  
> I had a lot of fun with the dialogue! We finally get a couple more clues.
> 
> Enjoy! ♥  
> cor.

Heavy raindrops rattled the window panes. Each droplet, each vindictive tear, came as one of so many hundred millions discarded by Heaven. The midnight storm was in full effect, now, but the Happy Hotel stood its ground. Thunderous hands pinned the establishment with all the intent of a wrathful god keen on delivering its punishments, but it refused to bow to the torment.

The night was still relatively young, though.

_“Spill_ it.” Even with her modest height, Vaggie virtually towered over Niffty. Her hands were planted on her hips, her eyes narrowed with obvious intent. Charlie was quick to put a hand on her shoulder, and though the gesture was only mildly effective, it did not go unnoticed.

Niffty, meanwhile, had busied herself with twiddling her thumbs. The sharp needle points of her digits produced soft whispers with each indecisive strike, like two matches fighting to ignite. She glanced nervously towards the bed — towards Alastor.

“I— I don’t know if I should say, but—”

_“Should._ Meaning you _can.”_ The room was silent for a half second. Vaggie jabbed a finger in Alastor’s direction, and her grimace became all the more prominent. “Which means you _aren’t_ deal-bound to indiscretion.”

“Vaggie…” Charlie’s tone bordered on something unusual, something almost authoritative. A hushed warning. Despite its nuance, the effect was immediate: Vaggie slumped her shoulders somewhat, her posture relaxing at least minimally. But she neither folded nor backed down completely.

“Look, Al’s a _little_ outta commission right now. He ain’t gonna do anything to ya if you squeal.” Angel was still watching the scene from his spot on the bed, his fingers still working through Alastor’s unusually unkempt hair as he spoke. There was an edge to his tone, but its intricacies were difficult to decode given the circumstance.

“Angel, he wouldn’t… _I_ would never allow that to happen _anyway.”_ Despite her words, Charlie’s face was irrevocably downcast. She tightened her fingers against the flesh of her arm, her usual smile cannibalized by an uneasy scowl. It didn’t fit her demeanor — it didn’t fit her image of herself. It purely didn’t fit.

It looked like Angel was preparing his retort, but Niffty rose from her chair and wandered towards the bed before he could get any words out. Her height granted her a front-row view of Alastor’s weariness, and she drank in the forbidden sight of his naked face with a heavy ounce of apprehension.

It felt just as sinful as the behaviour that had landed her here in the first place.

“...When the weather gets bad like this — when it gets really rainy… He stays in and we reschedule all his plans, but—” Niffty clenched her hands into tight little fists, her demeanor shifting as she raised her voice. It threatened to crack, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care much regardless. “But he’s never been like— like _this!_ He just gets quiet and… and… turns off his microphone, but—”

She was stumbling all over her words, her single tearful eye pinching in distress at her own explanation. Charlie put her hands on her shoulders reassuringly, and for a brief moment, the room was still and silent save for Niffty’s panicked breathing.

“It’s alright.” Charlie gave her a gentle squeeze. She was smiling again, but the expression was softer and more minute than her usual full-on theatrical grin. It had never quite rivaled Alastor’s, of course, but, well — neither of them were smiling very much as of late. “Thank you, Niffty.”

She nodded a little, reaching to adjust Alastor’s forelocks with a precise touch. His hair had to frame his face _just_ so — it was how he liked it, after all. And while normally Alastor would have been very likely to break the fingers of the numerous hands touching his head (with a charismatic grin to boot), his unconscious face showed no signs of stirring.

“...You ever seen him like this?” Angel’s voice was low, his words slow on his tongue as he tasted the frightening reality of them piece by piece. He cast a glance towards Niffty, but she could only shake her head. Her face was struggling with her emotions, her single pupil unfocused as she seemed to finally settle on comfortable numbness.

“Well, whadd’ya think, Princess?” He leaned his head back against the pillows, breathing a staggering sigh. It was more than a little overwhelming to be in Alastor’s presence; usually, yes, he could be draining. But to bear witness to his… frown? The very expression that most denizens thought him unable to make? It did things to his chest, to his very _blood._ It was as if all his organs were contorting to make room for the cold stones filling his stomach. For as much as he’d been trying to get Alastor into his bed, _this_ was not the kind of naked he’d been gunning for. “Yer the expert here, what’s the game plan?”

“Right, uhm… Wait— what exactly am I the expert on?” Charlie furrowed her brows. Beside her, Vaggie had fixed Angel with a _particularly_ hateful glare.

“You have the absolute _audacity_ to—” But Charlie was already touching her arm, and Vaggie could feel the anger dwindling. Her fists, like her jaw, remained tense nonetheless, and she narrowed her eyes in Angel’s direction.

He shook his head, doing his best to resist rolling his eyes. Sure, the more Charlie matured into her role as hotel manager, the less predictable she became, but Vaggie was _absolutely_ the easiest person to read in any given room. There was no challenge to it — not that Angel really minded; that was more Alastor’s game.

“She’s the _Princess of Hell._ Ain’t she the best person ta be askin’ about this? Y’know, powerful demon shit?” Angel waved three of his hands in little circles, gesturing at nothing in particular. The fourth showed no intention of moving from cradling Alastor’s head. 

They were silent for a moment. Charlie opened her mouth to say something — to assert her expertise on the subject that she was most certainly not as well versed-in as she hoped to be — but Niffty piped up before she could form the words.

“You should ask Husk.”

Vaggie raised both eyebrows incredulously, her hands resettling on her hips. Her glare had shifted to a less serious, but still ultimately unimpressed frown. _“That_ drunkard?” Charlie elbowed her sharply in the ribs, but she folded her arms tight to her chest. “What?! He’s fucking _sloshed_ and _asleep_ at his own damn bar half the time I see him!”

“Hey! Husk has his faults — he’s sinned, just like _everyone else here,_ in case _you_ forgot — but he’s a _good friend!”_ Niffty’s arms, too, were folded — almost as though she were mocking Vaggie’s own abrasive body language. _“And_ he’s been with Alastor the longest!”

For a moment, the room was silent and ripe with tension; only Alastor’s low, lethargic breathing offered any resistance against the cacophony of rain. Vaggie’s face was fixed into a permanent scowl, and this time, even Charlie’s reassuring touch wasn’t enough to displace it.

“Okay.” She said, her soft tone edging on hopeful. She put on her usual smile, but whether it was just for appearances or not was difficult to ascertain. “Then we’ll find Husk.”

“Won’t be difficult.” Angel shrugged when Niffty’s protective wrath skipped onto him. He rolled his eyes, two of his hands — one upper and one lower — lazily dismissing her. “What? Just bein’ realistic here. Jeez.”

Charlie and Vaggie left without another word, though their intentions were abundantly clear. As they stepped into the elevator — and into a particularly suffocating silence — Vaggie’s frown deepened. This time, it was her turn to place a reassuring hand on Charlie’s shoulder, though the other offered up a weak smile in an attempt to assuage her worry.

“It’s going to be okay.” Charlie put her hand atop Vaggie’s own, squeezing it gently. “Husk’ll know what’s up! And… I mean, if he doesn’t — we’ll just have to figure it out ourselves.”

But they both knew that wasn’t the entire truth.

“Hun… _You know_ we should ask—”

“Nope!” The elevator door opened, announcing their arrival at the first floor, and Charlie was already hurrying towards the bar. She tossed her words carelessly over her shoulder as she went. _“I’ve got this!_ Let’s find Husk!”

Vaggie sighed, but resigned herself to following after her. True to form, Husk was holed up behind the bar with one hand clutching a bottle and the other cradling his cheek. He raised a bushy brow at their pace, his eyes slowly narrowing as his brain calculated the likelihood of social interaction.

“Husk!” Charlie planted her hands on the bar top. Beside her, Vaggie was already crossing her arms again, her weight shifting to one hip. “We need to talk abo—”

_“Whoa, whoa, whoa.”_ He put down the bottle, scrubbing his paws across his face. Charlie’s chipper tone was almost too much on a normal day, but she was absolutely riled up about whatever she was so intent on yammering about. Husk folded his ears back as he leaned his face across the bar, the alcohol on his breath suddenly his most distinguishing feature. “Look, I don’t know _what the fuck_ you’re on about, but take it down to a _three_ instead of a fuckin’ _twelve.”_

He paused, caught Vaggie’s eye, and immediately tacked on an _impressively insincere, “please.”_

“Look,” Vaggie tasted the word as it crept from her lips, savoring the flavor. She leaned past Charlie, jabbing an accusatory finger in Husk’s face. _“You know something._ And if you value your _job,_ your _friendship with us,_ or the _quality of your afterlife,_ you’re gonna tell us what’s going on with _Satan’s fucking phone operator!”_

He wrinkled his muzzle, pushing her hand away as he made to pour himself another drink. It might have been next to midnight, but it was _too fucking early_ for this shit.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, _toots.”_

Charlie intervened in time to stop Vaggie from acting upon the murderous intent lighting her eyes, gently pulling her away from the counter. She took a steadying breath, clasped her hands together neatly, and tilted her head in Husk’s general direction. _“Alastor._ The… _uncontrolled_ radio frequencies? And the tentacles? And… uhm… The whole _spontaneous bleeding_ part?”

She paused, almost for emphasis — though it was equally likely that she was reviewing the facts herself. “...He doesn’t usually bleed, does he?”

Husk raised his eyebrows, bunched his mouth into a sloppy frown, and looked towards the window as though noticing the weather for the very first time. His fur bristled. And when he finally set down the bottle, there was a surprising soberness to his face.

Alastor, meanwhile, was finally opening his eyes. Two thoughts immediately formed in his brain, and though one was of considerable more importance, each nagged at him with a measure of urgency.

First and foremost, he was decidedly _not_ in his own bedroom — or any room he had spent any meaningful amount of time in to recognize through exhausted, half-lidded eyes.

Second, he was in _excruciating pain._


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to all you beautiful people leaving comments. I'm having a tough time between work and full-time university, but reading your kind words has seriously helped me so much. Thank you!!
> 
> Anyway, have some pseudo-answers. You guys deserve them. I've taken some small liberties with how things work, but it was the basis for the entire fic, so.
> 
> Enjoy! ♥  
> cor.

Fragments of rain glazed the stained glass windows. Each fragile bead shattered on impact; every single drop, every tiny soul, crushed by the omnipotent fist of inevitability. The night was fully matured now, and though its hands held the entirety of Hell in a vindictive chokehold, even it was not immune to the storm’s ravaging caress.

And the sound of it was something else entirely, something branching beyond the constraints of noise or reason. It was oppressive; even as he tensed within the confines of his own skin, he could feel the tingle and prick of static moving without his instruction. One million tiny insects crawled beneath his skin, their pointed feet penetrating flesh and muscle as they marched a tuneless death spiral.

Alastor squeezed his eyes shut again.

He pulled a slow, steadying breath and savored the half-second of control. He could feel his blood burning in his veins — an acidic brew bubbling with malice and something decidedly less nameable as he inhaled and exhaled carefully measured breaths. He flexed his fingers hesitantly, realizing that his gloves had been removed. Bare fingers brushed against bed linens tentatively, mindful not to snag his claws in any stitches, but the sensation nearly sent shivers down his spine. The blankets were thick and plush and scented lightly with… What was that, honeysuckle? Lily of the valley?

It was most certainly not _his_ scent — nor _his_ bed.

Light pooled at the corners of his eyes, begging entrance. Alastor furrowed his brow. The skin around his eyes was puffy and swollen with sluggishness; he cracked his eyelids and immediately felt the familiar sting of sleep-deprivation. But it mattered little — he had been bedridden long enough.

He forced his arms to obey and pushed himself up on his elbows, wincing visibly from the strain. Blood and organs and nerves and flesh — the pain that surged throughout his body harmonized into a wonderfully debilitating _ache_ from which there was no escaping, and he caught his lip between his teeth with a soft hiss. It was difficult to ascertain the source of the pain, but it bled from his core towards his extremities with frightening intensity. Something turned in his stomach, and he felt his lips twitch at the edge of his smile. The flawlessness of his demeanor was of utmost importance _even now._

“Nuh uh— Al, you gotta stay in bed.” Three hands were suddenly at his chest, foiling his escape plan. And though Angel pushed him gently, there was a decidedly _firm_ tone to his body language; there would be no room for disagreement.

Alastor seemed to hesitate. His bare hand lingered in the air, his body and his mind meeting at a stubborn impasse. The Radio Demon’s smile stuttered on his lips.

“Angel, my dear… _Please_ do _not_ manhandle me.” But the words were merely a barrier, a last defence tactic thrown up in blatant desperation. Alastor’s voice trembled with shotty static — trembled with or without the vocal interference.

“You’re okay!” He flinched as two tiny arms latched around his waist, squeezing his organs back into place. “I was so so _so_ worried!”

“Niff, c’mon, be careful.” Angel’s fourth hand rested on Niffty’s shoulder, patting her reassuringly. It took a good moment or so, but he did eventually untangle her hands from Alastor’s frail form. “Give him some space, he’s not lookin’ good.”

The Radio Demon hunched forward some, taking the weight off his hands. His complexion was unusually sallow, his skin pulled taut over his bones as his fingers folded into one another. Angel’s hands had migrated to help hold him steady.

And Alastor _hated_ that he _didn’t_ absolutely hate it.

“Easy, okay?” Angel frowned, unable to ignore the tremors that crawled up and down Alastor’s frame. He adjusted the blankets some, his lower set of hands unfocused without a direct task to occupy them. They fidgeted something awful, drumming slowly on the bed frame. “Are you… cold?”

Alastor shook his head, but his arms were already coiling around himself. He looked positively tiny bundled up in Angel’s bed without so much as a grin to grace his lips. Even his ears, usually so proudly upright, were sagging and matted.

“I’ll get more blankets!” And before anyone could stop her, Niffty was already heading out the door and down the hallway in pursuit of the linen closet.

Angel and Alastor sat in loaded silence. Only the downpour dared disturb them.

“...Angel—”

“Hold still, okay? Don’ freak out.” Angel raised a hand carefully towards Alastor’s face — who, predictably, wrinkled his nose and leaned away. “You got some blood still… Here, where’s yer hanky?”

Alastor’s smile had lost most of its curvature, but he reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a small embroidered handkerchief. He handed it over wordlessly, red eyes fully prepared to look anywhere else. The whole of his face was wracked with sleeplessness: a fatigue so deep-cutting it seemed to puncture his very nature.

“I’ll be quick.” Angel bunched the corner of the cloth and dabbed it against his tongue. His movements were measured and gentle, and he was especially mindful not to pull the sensitive skin as he wiped beneath Alastor’s eyes. Small patches of dried blood — the disturbing remnants of their last conversation together — flaked away under his touch.

He smiled, folding the cloth and handing it back to Alastor. “There, done.”

Alastor only nodded. Under normal circumstances, he would have absolutely retaliated at the touch, but he was _so tired._ The rainfall hummed alongside his disordered thoughts, and in that moment, he knew that sleep was no longer a viable option.

“...I suppose… I should thank you for… Your concern,” Alastor said slowly, his mouth unacquainted with such phrasing. It wasn’t as though he had never delivered kind words before — no, it was the meekness of his own tone that re-awakened something ancient and cold inside his body. He stretched his fingers, tracing the killing point of his claw against his thumb with measured intent. His jaw was tight and tense as he spoke, “...and perhaps I should… _apologize.”_

To his surprise, Angel merely shrugged his shoulders. He propped his chin against his fist, his lower set of arms folding nonchalantly as he fixed his gaze with Alastor’s. And they held each other like that, eyes interlocked momentarily, neither willing to crush the intimacy of the look.

“Yeah,” Angel’s tone was steady, and this time, it was Alastor who was trapped beneath his level gaze. “You probably should.”

Niffty chose that moment to reappear, her slender arms overburdened by blankets of assorted colors and textures. She set down her pile next to the bed and went about meticulously unfolding each one at a time. Occasionally her face would scrunch with telltale dissatisfaction, but her concerns were… difficult to understand.

Eventually, though, she seemed to find one befitting the needs of her patron, and she held it up excitedly. It was deep beige and knit from oversized wool, and neither of them could place its origin — not even Alastor, who had surely helped Niffty with the laundry on more than one occasion. “This one!”

Angel took it without another word. His movements were surprisingly precise — restrained, even — as he shook the blanket out over the bed. While his top hands smoothed the material flush with the other blankets, his lower hands worked their fingers snugly against Alastor’s body, tucking him into a tight cocoon. He dusted his hands off with nothing more than a half smirk.

“Oooooh!” Niffty did a little hop, her mannerisms somewhat recovered from the prior stress-overload. Her hands flew to her cheeks as she felt the width of her own grin. “You’re folded up like a little envelope! I mean, if you were an envelope, you’d probably be filled with scary dangerous stuff, but! It’s! So! _Cute!”_

She was basically vibrating at this point. Had Alastor been his usual self, he likely would have joined her in his own animated way — laughing exaggeratedly, gesturing with both arms while telling some dramatic anecdote regarding the president’s mail or something. Angel rolled his eyes, but his smile betrayed his amusement.

“Just who do you think you are, callin’ the _Radio Demon_ ‘cute’, huh?” His face split into a teasing grin, and he couldn’t help ruffling up her hair with two of his hands.

Alastor, meanwhile, had shut his eyes again. When his face was like this, eyes closed, smile slack on his lips, skin all but bruised by nightmares, he was almost indistinguishable. He stayed that way, his consciousness only dictated by the uneasy stiffness his body carried. He breathed in, and for a brief moment, allowed the overwhelming sting of pain to intoxicate him. The hum and thrum of the storm was worming through his brain again, picking over his thoughts one at a time. And for the moment, he hadn’t the strength to stop it.

“You know,” he said, though his eyes remained closed. The Radio Demon smiled, and for the first time in such a long time, it was _purely_ unmotivated and unforced. “I think I must have developed a soft spot for you misfits. Otherwise I’d have _torn that word straight from your little mouths.”_

But his tone was edging on desperate. Alastor’s voice crackled with deep-set static, his eyes faintly lit from within. 

A beat of silence. Silence, punctured by rainfall.

Downstairs, Husk was carefully weighing his words. Charlie and Vaggie had taken up seats at the bar, and naturally, he’d started prepping some drinks to pass the time. He didn’t like having his hands free — they craved something to do, something to meddle with, something to make. It was part of the reason he gravitated towards cards. Well, _that_ and the crippling gambling addiction.  


“Where the fuck is he bleeding _from?_ ” Husk hardly wanted to consider it. With Alastor’s reputation, it could be any number of disturbing orifices. The possibility of it not even being _his_ blood briefly occurred to him, but Husk pushed that one aside altogether — it was fucking probable and fucking _skin-crawling._

“His eyes. At least, I think so.” Charlie was idly gnawing her finger as she thought, and beside her, Vaggie pointed lazily towards her own face in pantomime.

“That’s a new one.” Husk frowned deeper than usual, his tired eyes sagging as he glanced again towards the storm. “...Fine.”

He took his sweet time preparing their drinks before he would commit to a conversation, of course. He fished under the bar top and produced a half-empty bottle of whiskey — and thankfully had the decency to pour himself a proper shot, as he set the rest aside for theirs. Two chilled glasses made their way to the bar top, alongside apple cider, cinnamon, and an aerosol can of whipped cream fresh from the mini-fridge.

“Shit happens when it rains, sometimes.” Husk was eyeballing the ratios. Vaggie pinched the bridge of her nose, pushing down whatever annoyances tempted her to chide him. He obviously noticed, because his usual lazy smirk returned to his mouth.

It only lasted a moment, though, before dying off with the rest of Husk’s fleeting happiness.

“We had these guys in the war,” he said the words slowly, frowning at the taste of them. “Radiomen. Fuck, they never lasted long. But they knew a thing’re two about how those things worked.

“Anyway, I knew one’a them. Good guy, hope he ain’t rottin’ down here…”

Charlie nodded along to his story, too polite to interrupt. She rested a hand on Vaggie’s knee, willing her, too, to find an ounce of patience for Husk’s reminiscing. A frown was plastered full-force onto Vaggie’s face, but even she didn’t have the heart to tear down his memories.

Husk blinked, frowning as he found himself in the present again. He scoffed and threw back his single shot of whiskey before busying himself with the finishing touches on the girls’ drinks. A generous swirl of whipped cream topped off the apple pie whiskies in delicious, decadent style.

“Look, the point is that _real bad weather_ fucks with _radio waves._ ” Husk kept his hands at the base of the glasses, his eyes locked with Charlie’s. She frowned, and her brow furrowed in sudden realization. 

“Waves can’t transmit well through all this _shit,”_ he pointed an accusatory claw towards the window. Outside, the rain surged against the glass, searching for any weak points in the building’s architecture. It rattled the windows, assaulted the stonework, all the while shrieking its frustration. "Not much gets in, and not much goes out."

“So… Wait.” Charlie was holding two fingers up, obviously trying to summarize the new information. She flexed her forefinger. “If this is Al, what does that mean for him?”

Husk gestured at their drinks expectantly. Charlie took a polite sip — followed by a deeper, more indulgent one. Her cheeks reddened a touch at the memories that intermingled with the strong, steeped flavors. Even Vaggie seemed to enjoy it, the sweet apple and the spicy cinnamon intermingling on the tongue like destined lovers.

But the mood only lasted a moment. Husk reached out his paw, and with two precise talons, pinched the tip of Charlie’s index finger.

“It _means_ his head’s in a fuckin’ _fish bowl.”_

Upstairs, Alastor was struggling to stay awake, the static surging through his body in violent circuits. Agony chewed through his bones like so many monstrous teeth, each threatening to send him over the edge. His breath came in sharp, unsteady gasps, and though Angel insisted on holding him tightly, there was absolutely nothing that could be done to soothe his pain.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your loving comments! You inspire me to write my best.
> 
> Oh shit here we go.  
> This may be my favorite chapter thus far... Just saying.
> 
> Enjoy! ♥  
> cor.

The night stretched ever onward towards morning, its hands too frail to hold its stars aloft any longer. Raindrops scraped windows like one million dextrous claws, their fingers never tiring, never aching — even as flesh gave way to bone, and bone gave way to poisoned marrow. The downpour never wavered; no, its unquellable wrath bordered on catastrophic. And though the hotel stood strong against the violent assault, its walls were paper thin to its destructive song.

The wailing never stopped: neither the storm’s, nor the Radio Demon’s.

“Al— ...Alastor, please…” Angel tried to keep his tone steady, but it was well beyond him at this point. His voice trembled, his words catching on his teeth clumsily as he struggled to swallow the ache in his throat. “It’s okay… It’s okay…”

Four arms wound tightly around Alastor’s weak form, Angel’s grip carefully navigating the line between protective yet gentle. A moment’s hesitation drummed across his face. He breathed in, tasting his own conflicting emotions; trepidation, worry, and something dangerously close to devotion weaved the outline of his very cells.

“...You better not rip my arms off when yer back to normal,” Angel mumbled, the words softer than he would have liked. He extended his third set of arms, careful not to disturb Alastor any more than necessary. A sigh trickled free of Angel’s lips, his fifth hand carefully streaming through scarlet hair, his sixth cradling his own face and the unreadable expression that lived there.

_You’re worried about him._

It was becoming practically impossible to deny Charlie’s statement — here, now, as the Radio Demon himself lay vulnerable and malfunctioning mere inches from his heart. Sure, Angel had picked up on some of his habits from their usual time together: the way Alastor’s fingers spoke words that even his mouth dared not to, the way his smiles subtly shifted and how to read them semi-accurately, even the way his natural static flickered from station to station when the Radio Demon’s thoughts meandered too far. But those mannerisms, those endearing ticks, were nothing compared to how Alastor’s body quivered and trembled of its volition beneath the cutting blade of his own pain.

“...Y’know, Al…” Angel stretched to nab a tissue from the nightstand, his hand faltering for a half second, before gently wiping the beading sweat from Alastor’s forehead. Even now, _even now,_ his mouth was sharply contorted into a pinched grin. 

He felt his own mouth twisting into a weak smile — a painful, sardonic smile that fit all too perfectly alongside the ache in his chest. “This, uh… This scares me more’n anythin’ else I’ve ever seen from you. I guess that’s sayin’ somethin’, huh?”

A weak laugh stirred itself free from Angel’s tightly-set lips. His eyes were downcast, his face not entirely sure how to conduct itself. Emotions like these rarely reached the surface; he’d trained himself as such, perfected the artform of saving misery for a later that would never come. But they were splitting him open now, exposing his anxieties.

“Yer just gonna have’ta pull some real fucked up shit when yer back to normal,” he mused, idly playing with a tress of Alastor’s hair. It was as deeply red as merlot, as precious rubies, as blood — as any number of things, but somehow a thousand times more valuable as it was there, caught between his naked fingertips. “...Y’know, so’s we can forget all about this.”

But Angel’s mumblings cracked and crumbled, his words falling away to little more than residual dust amidst the white space. Alastor was no longer conscious to hear them; Alastor was _nowhere._

The void stretched unfathomably beyond any comprehensible distance. It was just as Alastor had encountered it during each preceding nightmare: a shapeless, formless amalgamation of absolute nothingness interrupted only by his own existence. The floor, or ground, or _membrane_ by which his hooved shoes found purchase was only semi-solid, its properties as gut-turningly unpredictable as its surroundings.

And _the sound of it_ threatened to bring him prematurely to his knees. Raw noise wriggled and groaned against the air’s inherent tension, its sound a single tempered scream turned sideways, struggling to breech amidst the crushing nothing. It washed across his very thoughts like a wall of dark water, and in that moment, Alastor could feel the rush of sound crawling inside his very being. One by excruciating one, his thoughts were examined and picked open. Dissected, scratched clean from the slate of his mind, until only the pain — the _maddening pain_ — remained.

The static fluttered to life beneath his skin, threatening to flay him from the inside out. He swallowed, his smile warbling uncontrolled across his face, his eyes alight with an unhinged glee. The blood was coming — the killing tear, the sweet release. He coiled his arms around his middle, savoring the feeling of his organs all arranged as they should be, dutifully pumping and beating and willing life into his ashen flesh. He felt the cool, burning touch of a familiar hand on his shoulder, and he knew it wouldn’t be long now.

His shadow lay heavy across his back, its exaggerated claws creeping the length of his own arms. Its movements were slow and calculated alongside Alastor’s own reckless breathing: a measured, collected version of himself he hadn’t known for some days now. Gently, almost lovingly, it wove their identical fingers together. It smiled their identical smile. It tilted its head, and Alastor felt compelled to follow its identical gaze.

The empty void was no longer empty. No, its unrestrained perfection had wrinkled like a Sunday tablecloth, a stain appearing amidst the white nothingness as though God himself had spilled his omnipotent glass. Alastor felt his breath hitch in his throat, and for a moment, his thoughts ran clear and crystalline.

The radio tower.  
_His_ radio tower. 

_Home._

He made to open his mouth, but it had again disintegrated into meaningless static. Sound was reigned in, here — and Alastor’s voice had long been stripped of him. But it mattered not; his shadow adjusted its grip on their hands, leading him with measured patience towards the newly-apparated landmark. Huddled low to the base of the tower sat a small building, its brick exterior dotted with white-trimmed window panes. The front door swung open soundlessly, though Alastor’s brain could still remember the soft squeak of the old, rusting hinges.

It welcomed him. _Pleaded_ with him to come inside, just for a moment. He could all but smell the sweet tang of something cooking atop the wood-burning stove, all but taste the comfortable spice of Sazerac on his tongue. His shadow ushered him inside, the door closing of its own accord just as soundlessly as it had opened. And for a moment, the house was plunged into a darkness so absolute that it consumed even the blinding white of the void itself.

**“Alastor.”**

The Radio Demon clasped his hands over his ears, the raw sound amalgamating into a single noise. He struggled to label it a _voice,_ per se — no, it was far too visceral, far too archaic. White noise pooled and conjoined as one, the mass of sound and light a contorted, perverted take on something familiar.

**“Welcome home, Alastor.”**

He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the bleak darkness. His shadow was still content to cling across his back, its hands roaming his shoulders, his upper arms, his torso. It was kind enough to adjust his disheveled bowtie, but Alastor knew better than to place too much trust in the thing.

It was, after all, purely an extension of himself.

He took a cautious step forward. The house was just as he had left it on the day of his death; hunting trophies of every size stood perfectly arranged on the South-facing wall, their elaphine eyes as cold and dead as polished stones as they surmised his worth. Alastor drew a steadying breath, his hand tightening in the breast of his jacket, his lungs stinging against the pressure of static.

**_“Stay here,_ Alastor.”**

He leaned his shoulder against the wall, his shadow heavy and hot on his skin. Confused thoughts shot through his skull like the very bullet that had killed him, each one scattered and directionless. He was panicked — he was nothing more than a doe in human skin.

Shadowed hands cupped his face, willing him free of the trance for a single moment of clarity. Alastor drew another breath, his hands steadying against the semi-solid body before him despite the imminent pain the touch assured. He pinched his eyes shut for a half-second, savoring the focus it granted him.

**“You’re not listening, Alastor.”**

He shook his head, his stubborn nature willing the voice free of his thoughts — but it held fast, its proverbial talons tight and wanting. Step by step, he pulled himself along the wall and towards the kitchen.

Something deep and visceral screamed at him, _commanded him_ not to make eye contact with the darkness that lingered on the peripherals of his vision.

**“You’ve always been so _stubborn,_ Alastor.”**

He stumbled, his footing clumsy and sluggish as he hit the floor. Manic claws scratched at his mouth, his eyes stinging with frustrated tears, but the static consumed every touch with only blistering feedback. For a moment, he felt his body crumple in on itself. His power was meaningless here. His actions, too, seemed preordained and foolish — there was no out, or exit, or victory to be had. There was no enemy to slay. There was no winning plan to navigate or execute. There was purely nothingness draped around his own condemned shoulders.

But there _wasn’t_ nothing.

A familiar shadowed hand helped him to his feet, its strength as infinite as it had been when last it held his dying face aloft. Alastor leaned heavily against his shadow, his breath strained and heavy as it struggled through his nostrils. His mouth was non-existent, still, consumed by his body’s own inherent static. He steadied himself against a table edge. He willed himself not to come undone again.

**“You’re _the Radio Demon,_ Alastor.”**

The voice was absolutely correct in its statement. Alastor felt himself grin, though the voracious static devoured the expression before it could properly decorate his face. His shadow tilted its head, its own smile doubling in size, its claws dancing across its master’s arms in measured circuits.

Carefully, slowly, Alastor pulled himself to his proper height. Static coursed through his veins with malicious intent, but the pain was almost an afterthought at this point. He was steady. He furrowed his brow, his newly-focused eyes struggling to see. The house was the same as it had been when he had left it last — in every meaningful way but one.

**“You don’t get to just _deviate_ from that, _Alastor!”_**

No, the house was an excellent forgery, but its details were carefully curated. He plucked an old wooden picture frame from its spot on the table — the very spot he had placed it sometime in his twenties — and tilted his head.

The photo had been changed.

He could remember the specifics of the frame. He could remember buying it from a friendly young man in town one day, insistent on reproducing his mother’s diligence for keepsakes. He could remember carefully choosing this one, this insignificant thing, from amidst several dozens of other, similar frames. He could remember painstakingly flipping through the few black and white photos he had to his name, watching the red and the purple drain from the evening sky as the after-supper activity spanned hours on end.

But he couldn’t for the death of him remember which photo had lived in that frame.

 _This_ frame, though — this frame held a photo of his dear hotel friends. Alastor touched his fingertips to the glass; there was Charlie, her classic exuberance captured perfectly despite the limitations of the medium. Vaggie stood next to her, and it was obvious she was doing her best to put on a good face for her girlfriend’s sake — though Alastor had appreciated it just as much as Charlie had. Husk all but towered over Niffty’s tiny pose, one hand on her shoulder, the other tightly toting a beer bottle.

And there was Angel Dust. He sat perched on his usual bar stool, his expression irreverent and perfect. His long legs lay crossed over one another, his shapely ankles disappearing somewhere behind Charlie and Vaggie’s tight embrace. One of his hands propped his head up just-so, his candid beauty as effortless as it was feigned for the camera. Alastor himself was not in this photo. Alastor himself had _taken_ this photo; it lived in its own carefully-chosen frame atop his dressing table at the Happy Hotel, where he glanced at it fondly as he readied himself each morning.

**“It’s not in your nature — _you_ can’t love, _Alastor.”_**

The photo slipped from his hands. The shrill shriek of shattered glass cut through his momentary haze like a cold blade, and he stiffened. His hands were hot. His body swam with static, his muscles pulled rigid against bones. He was vaguely aware of his shadow’s hands on his shoulders, but the sting of the touch was utterly lost to him. Emotions were running over; the dam’s cracks had been left unchecked, and there were no precautions in place for the overflow. 

The Radio Demon trembled against the blackness. His shadow held fast to his hands, its fingers entwining with Alastor’s own in a foggy attempt to soothe his unstable frenzy. But Alastor could not be restrained by the void for much longer; his fists tightened, his hands hell-bent on snapping his own fingers one by one.

 _Love?_  
Was _this_ what that felt like?

Was this what he’d been stubbornly crushing beneath his emotional bootheel day after day after _day?_ He’d known the weed had sprouted, but he’d made every effort to cut it down. His was a garden of perfect stability; but that dandelion had taken root and sowed its dreadful seeds across his heart no matter his attentiveness.

_**“Alastor…”** _

_And he absolutely loathed it._

Shadowed hands crept along his face again, his counterpart’s smile distorted and ugly. Was it trying to frown? The stupid thing — it _couldn’t_ frown just as he himself _couldn’t_ love. The static was bubbling free again, coursing its way through his body like so many hateful lashings.

But Alastor leaned into the pain. He narrowed his eyes, his face contorting, stretching, shredding itself open at the seams. Clawed fingertips ached for purchase, the tips embedding in the wooden table top with manic intent, deep-set cracks running the length of its surface.

The sound — that terribly inhuman, unfathomable sound — was no longer coming from the void. It was coming from the Radio Demon, and Alastor channeled it through his body, ripping his mouth clean through the static in a display of complete and utter unhinged madness.

_“You do not get to decide what I am capable of!”_

His words came fast and heavy from the new wound of his mouth, the sound of his own voice startling him free of his hysteria for but a moment. Hot, bitter blood pooled along his tongue, the unquenchable flow dripping free of his teeth to paint his frown a vibrant red.


End file.
